As Long As I Live
by DoctoressOctopus
Summary: AU. In a seventeenth century town ruled by prejudice, two slaves strive to find a life after bitter experiences and soon discover that their paths are destined to cross. Romy, GambitRogue. Jonda, JohnWanda.
1. Defenseless

Prologue

Remy LeBeau—lord among swordsmen and prince of thieves—was a force to be reckoned with. Few men were brave enough—or foolish enough—to test his luck against this legend's skill with a blade, and those who did scarcely spoke aught of the experience afterwards.

In character, he was a loner, for so his adolescence had taught him to be. Life was simply another game with a list of opponents just waiting to overthrow the player. Letting oneself become too absorbed into the game's details, lowering his guard, could be a fatal mistake, a losing mistake, one that he made sure to avoid. He always took care to have an ace up his sleeve, no matter how dark the corner he had been backed into. He prided himself on this perception, and watched with a sense of pity as those who failed to see his view fell after only a few moves.

The man was a warrior, a survivor who laughed in the face of danger. He chose to build rather than dwell on the emotions left by his losses, using Death itself as it struck down those ill-fated souls whom he had known all his life to expand his limits. His patience and wit were envied by many, and his physical abilities had earned his possessor scores of offers over the years.

But neither his valued personality nor revered talents were as sudden to the first glance as his appearance: amid his fair face burned eyes of ember, terrifying in his wrath and dangerously enticing during his usual periods of tranquility. Wherever this trait was not feared or despised in society, it was seen as a price. It was an age in which the unnatural was expected, and to many hunters, Remy LeBeau was as unique as they came.

Individuality is not limited to one's character alone, however, and those who sought to own him for his exclusive characteristics were oft attracted by the word of his _specific_ skill. That is, the cursed blessing that every one of his kind received at the Age of Evolution, the alleged gift that made him what he was. But the small number of people of the town who were actually aware of his existence were always disappointed to learn that he had not once used his gift in public, and, as it is with any community, it had not taken long for rumors to spread among them as to what that gift could be.

At first, the wiser presumed that Remy's prodigious strength and speed—which seemed to come as naturally to him as the instinct to breathe—were part of his development. When the simplicity of that explanation lost its charm, the more creative came up with endless possibilities to satisfy the minds of any who would listen.

One of the first accounts declared that one look into his crimson gaze would cause the onlooker to burst into flame, the reason as to why he always walked with his eyes cast down. Others claimed to have seen him burning some shrubs in his master's courtyard as a boy, with streams of fire flowing from his fingertips. A few who knew a little more of Remy's nature supposed he had the very concept of seduction under his control, an assumption closer to the mark than many. One story had found itself among the most accepted of these theories, although no one could say where it originated: it was said that he could create his own flame, a type to which he himself was immune, that would obliterate anything it came in contact with.

So it was that Remy became something of a living legend of his time, even if he was treated like anything but. No amount of local myths could make up for who and what he was; it never did. Not even his rank excused him from the prejudice of his father's people, who had deemed him an abomination from the start. But he had learned over his two and twenty years to rise above their scorn, hating it for its brutality but subconsciously desiring it—for it was probably their contempt that helped him survive. Without it, he would have grown up soft, blissfully ignorant of the trials of the world. With it, he had learned all the tricks of the trade, seeing through the veils of a man's half-truths and in turn gradually gaining his own knowledge in such crafts. Each blow he received began to reverberate, adding layer after layer to his psychological barricade, until at last his scarlet eyes saw the world for what it really was and what it took to endure its cruel reality.

Before he had even reached his Age, Remy was training himself for that reality with such vigor and passion that he obtained his soubriquet long before most men could claim. It was the vow he took upon himself—to survive of his own accord, and never depend on another lest he be betrayed, like so many he had seen—that hardened him most, and it was this, along with his sharp intellect and slowly maturing abilities, that earned him the codename Gambit.

:xXxXx:

The sun illuminated the forest path in a thousand individual rays of light, scattered every which way by the boughs of the trees above. Bluebells ran alongside the trail like sentinels, inviting the wanderer along the guarded way with an innocent wave of their blue and white petals. The clouds, scarcely to be seen through the young leaves of spring, drifted idly across the clear sky, every now and then casting a shadow over the surrounding land.

Oblivious to this scene, Gambit continued along his course silently, his face impassive. The only thing to be heard was the steady step of his horse behind him—for he himself walked without a sound—and the occasional calls of birds overhead. Presently, the familiar din of the town crowd reached his ears, and he paused to brace himself against the memories that came flowing back. His steed snorted nervously and butted his head against his master's shoulder.

"Easy, boy..." Gambit stroked the horse's forehead comfortingly, and with the other hand loosened his neck cloth. "I know it's been a while. But even loners like us need t'face life sooner or later." The grey stallion tossed his head before suffering himself to be led along again.

The remaining two miles were passed swiftly, and it was hardly midday when the open gates of town reared up before man and horse ominously. Gambit watched as people bustled about the many shops and stands, bargaining for food and other goods, unaware of his presence. He would have to act quickly to remain unseen; tightening his grip on the reins, he made his way into the market and stole into a nearby crowd of other horsemen so perfectly that no one gave him a second glance. It was a move only a thief could make.

His three years of exile seemed to have improved his skills rather than tarnish them in a way that made him almost invisible whenever he wished. But now his mind was buzzing with old concerns, and more than once that cover slipped, leaving him bare in the eyes of any who chanced to look up. Luckily for Gambit, the townsfolk were too absorbed in their own matters, as he had guessed they would be at this time of day, and no one took notice of him.

One old vender happened to catch eyes with the newcomer briefly, an event that made him hesitate in his dealing to study the person. But in the next instant the mysterious man and his mount had disappeared, lost in the crowd. The vender shrugged and went back to his business.

Gambit strode along the well-known streets, completely unnoticed for the most part, and once he came to the fountain that marked the center of the settlement, he began to relax and take in more of his surroundings. Every building of the small city was etched into his memory, each one holding its own significance, but there were a few new shops here and there that had been built in his absence. He was eager to get through as fast as his speed would allow, but then noticed that one booth near at hand had caught the attention of a fairly large amount of people.

Gambit's hands itched with an old talent, replacing his resurfaced emotions with the usual coolness required to carry out what he was about to do. Casting a look around, he fastened his horse's harness outside a tavern before joining the throng of onlookers. He lingered at the crowd's edge indifferently, pretending to pay heed to the merchant at its head. Once he had a feel of the group, Gambit concentrated on the nearest victim: a young man, perhaps two or three years older than himself. The string of the man's change purse was in plain view. A thoughtless mistake. In a movement too fluid and casual for anyone to think suspicious, Gambit passed behind him, and a moment later slipped his hand into his own shirt as he drew back. The man showed no sign.

Satisfied with his winnings, Gambit repeated the action half a dozen times before allowing himself to remember why he was here. Not daring to count his money in the open, he returned to where his horse was waiting, content that he had not lost his title, and in slightly higher spirits went to untie the reins from their wooden post. A flash of black to his right caught his eye. Curious, he looked over, and found himself observing what appeared to be a crime in the making.

A small figure, swathed in a black cloak from head to foot, was crouching on the edge of an alleyway, just short of the corner of one of the larger stands. The merchant was turned away from him, but Gambit could tell from his attire and broad size that he had never seen him before. The figure in the cloak waited until the stand owner was distracted with a customer before making his move. Carefully, he crept forward, and Gambit immediately saw his advantage: the location of the booth made it easy for a quick getaway back down the alley, which was no doubt the idea.

As an expert on the matter, Gambit was able to pick out the main error in the whole attempt: the pickpocket was not watching the surrounding crowd nearly enough as he should, a move that would have given him a hint as to how long the merchant would be preoccupied. It was this blunder that cost him the game. The amateur thief's gloved fingers were just grazing the moneybox on the stand's counter when the owner turned back around. The figure tried hastily to retreat, but a large hand closed on his wrist and pulled him to his feet.

The noise around Gambit prevented him from hearing just what was being said, although he could guess. Losing interest, he turned away and busied himself with unfastening his horse's strap, but at that moment an unmistakable crack shot through the air. He looked back and saw the still-cloaked thief on the ground, clutching his left shoulder. Above him stood the merchant, wielding a long whip in his right hand.

The abruptness of the attack, even if it was not on himself, unearthed a memory right before Gambit's eyes ere he could even think of stopping it.

:xXxXx:

_He was bleeding. That was the part he always remembered the most clearly—blood. Blood coming from his nose and mouth. Blood trickling down his chin to puddle beneath him on the floor as he waited on hands and knees for another inevitable blow. Blood seeping through the remains of what had been a shirt only moments before._

_Then came the pain. Blinding, searing pain, surging from the fresh welts on his back as his fingers dug into the plush carpeting defiantly. His dark hair, hanging damp with more blood as he trembled with fury and hurt, obscured everything from his view except that red carpet._

_The red carpet stained with his blood._

_He heard footsteps approaching…without warning he was lying on his back in his own blood, gasping for air, his left side throbbing madly…His blurred vision managed to make out a dark silhouette above him, holding a whip…A cruel hand seized his hair and pulled his battered body into a sitting position. A voice hissed coldly in his ear,_

"_Mind your manners, you little monster. Another remark like that, an' you'll be lookin' on this beatin' as an act a' mercy." He did not answer, and winced as the grip on his hair stiffened further. "You're a brave boy…haven' shed a single tear, have you? Answer me!" The back of his head connected solidly with the floor._

_He tried to reply, but only succeeded in coughing up more blood. Disgusted, his captor released him and raised the lash for another blow…then there was a voice, a different voice…older, softer…he knew that voice…its tone was scolding…he was being raised, away from the red carpet…someone was supporting him, helping him in his vain attempt to stand…_

_The last blow never came._

:xXxXx:

As Gambit watched, the rage from that night flowed once again through his veins like fire, and forgetting anything else he hastened forward. He was halfway to the stand when the merchant, having pulled him back up, gave the thief a violent shake, and for the first time the black hood fell back. Shoulder-length auburn hair tumbled out around a face that made Gambit stop.

Putting the subject mildly, she was beautiful. He had seen and temporarily owned many a fair maiden in his years, but very few came to surpass her loveliness. Despite the distance between them, Gambit could see her bright green eyes flashing heatedly between the two strips of white hair on either side of her pale face as she struggled.

Suddenly the merchant shoved her back, making her stumble and hit the stand wall. He lifted his whip again, and the girl removed the hand from her shoulder to shield her head.

Gambit only just caught the whip as the merchant drew it back, and in one swift motion pulled it from his grasp. At a loss, the man turned around, and his face glowed crimson when he saw Gambit, who could not have been paying less attention. His gaze was fixed on the young woman crouching against the wall, her hand returned to her bleeding wound. She seemed to be just as engrossed in him, although confusion dominated her features. She looked down at the whip in his hand and back to his face, and it was then that Gambit realized how the situation must appear: with his long hair drawn back above a casual ruffled shirt, he knew he must resemble some type of wealthy slave owner, rather than the exact opposite.

With some difficulty he turned his eyes away from hers to the angry merchant, who had opened his mouth to speak. "Ah, Monsieur, you must pardon her for her ruthless actions," he said apologetically, putting a hand to his breast and giving a half-bow. His words were calm and polite, showing no hint of the wrath that boiled within. He was somewhat thankful to find that the fat merchant knew the French tongue, and was hoping that the girl knew naught of it.

"She belongs to you?" he demanded, jerking his head.

"I'm afraid so. I only received her last week, so as you can guess, she's not fully trained yet." Gambit risked a glance in her direction. She still had not moved, and was observing the two men with an impatient expression that told him she could tell nothing of what they were saying. It took several more bows, and about five more minutes of apologies, before the merchant was contented.

He nodded. "Very well." He switched over to the Common Tongue to add, "Don't let me catch her around here again." These last words were accompanied by a stern glare. He moved aside, and Gambit stepped beneath the stall's canopy and extended his hand to the girl in debate. She hesitated, and then catching the merchant's face took Gambit's hand, guessing some of what was going on, and allowed him to take her gently by the upper arm as he led her out. Gambit bowed once more to the merchant, and placing a hand on her back, he said in an undertone,

"_Bow_."

Grudgingly, the girl obeyed, and held her tongue as she was escorted away and around a corner out of sight. There she tore from his grasp as he turned to face her.

"Who are you?" Her voice was rimmed with frustration and annoyance, but Gambit imagined it could also be soft and kind when it had to be.

"The man who jus' got you out of a world a' trouble." He took her arm again. "Follow me."

"Hey!" She tried to resist. "What d'you want with me?"

"You don' sound too thankful." The girl frowned as she was pulled along behind him.

"Where're you takin' me?"

"Quiet—" Gambit stood still, ignoring her struggles, and listened. They had stopped just short of an old, rundown building. To many, it was a lost cause, but to Gambit, it held all sorts of memories. "This way." He slipped around its side, out of view of anyone on the street, and began to run his hand along the cool stone. Immediately he located the familiar notch, and inserting two fingers pulled. A small patch of stone fell forward at their feet, leaving a hole just wide enough for a grown man to fit through. "Ladies first." He bowed. The girl looked at him, unsure. "Trust me," he said good-naturedly, stepping aside. Seeing no other option but to obey, she ducked and entered the old building, and Gambit did the same, his hand still clutching her forearm.

The place was just as he remembered it—collapsed beams here and there, old furniture scattered throughout, the chipped and weather stained bar in the corner. He guided her to the best seat he could find—a moth-eaten old thing, with stuffing protruding from the cushion—and released her. "Sit—" He jumped back as she whirled around, faster than he ever would have guessed, seized the hilt of his sword and drew it out of its sheath. She placed the tip at his throat.

"Ah'll ask you again: what d'you want with me?" Her tone was dangerously composed as her eyes looked him up and down.

"I didn' jus' save you t'bring you here an' kill you myself, if that's what you're thinkin'." Her gaze hardened.

"You did _not_ save me," she said sternly, retreating the blade a few inches. "You interfered."

"With what? How well you were doin' on your own?" His sarcasm abated slightly as he continued, "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead by now. But you're hurt, an' I'm willin' t'help you, if you'll let me."

She blinked, and then recovering growled, "Ah don't need help."

Gambit raised his hands. "Fine, then. How about you jus' put the sword down, an' I'll—" His heel met with the sword's hilt and sent it flying. The maiden gave a cry as it skidded to a halt across the room, and simultaneously the two of them leapt for it. But she was smaller and lighter, and hitting her knees she slid and wrapped her fingers around the handle. Gambit, landing next to her, saw the opportunity and reached down. She saw his plan and jumped up, but not before he withdrew the hidden knife inside her boot. He had just enough time to bring the dagger up and lock blades with his own sword as she came down on him. "Look, I _don_' want t'fight—" With a twinge of guilt he used his legs to propel her over him, and got to his feet as she hit and shattered an old wooden table. "Don' make me."

She stood up, panting. "Your choice." She came at him again, and soon the two of them were locked in battle, Gambit doing his best not to do any more harm to her. Normally, he would have gone for her injured shoulder, but it was the first time he had ever dueled against a woman, and it was then that the rules of a swordsman clashed with those of a gentleman.

"I'd say your skills could rival a man's," he commented, using a chair to step up onto the bar.

She followed, smirking. "The same applies to you." Her skill surprised him: he was soon backing up as far as he could go, barely able to ward her off. Yet the revival of a favorite pastime put him at ease, and Gambit began to fight back more efficiently. He may have had only a dagger at his disposal, but such was the man's talent that it was as deadly as any sword.

There was a brief second in which they met at the hilt, and their faces came so close that they almost touched. He could see a wild look in her green eyes, the look of a cornered animal summoning every survival instinct it possessed. But in the next second she thrust him back, and Gambit staggered dangerously on the edge of the bar. He kept his footing and chanced a triumphant smile at his adversary, only to have it fade as the counter beneath him cracked and split. He landed amid the dust on the floor on his back, his only weapon soaring out of reach. Then she was on top of him, sword at his heart, catching the dagger in her left hand as it came back down. The two of them remained unmoving, their ragged breathing the only evidence of the previous battle.

"Whoever you are, ah should kill you where you lie." She jerked her head to remove a strand of white hair from her eyes as she glared.

Gambit opened his arms, making no effort to protect himself. "Go ahead." She faltered then, scanning his face as if to determine what trick he was playing. When it became clear that this man was serious, she scowled and dropped his sword.

"It's no sport to kill the defenseless." She stepped away from him. "However arrogant they may be." She shifted the knife to her left hand and made as if to sheathe it once more, and then for the first time gave a hint that she was even aware of her injury. Her hand flew to her shoulder as she lowered herself to her knees, gasping with the sudden onslaught of pain. Gambit put away his sword before dropping to her side.

"Here—" She recoiled as if he had struck her, her breath hissing between her teeth as she stared at him coldly. "It's alright…" He gripped the unharmed shoulder—firmly, but gently—and pulled her up. At first she fought, and then gave in and followed when his hold did not relinquish. "Let's try this again: sit here." He had to almost force her into the chair, where she continued to send him a look of dislike as he crouched down in front of her. The entire left shoulder of her cloak was stained with blood, although it was hard to see against the black coloring. Gambit reached toward it and was rewarded with a cry of half fear, half anger as she shrank back. He took one of her reluctant hands in his as he looked into her eyes. "Look, I _want_ t'help you. You're hurt bad, an' it can't get much worse, anyway." It was a lie, but a lie that worked. She permitted him to lean forward and examine the wound silently, saying naught. Finally he turned to her. "I can't see much…may I?" In reply she tried to unbuckle the brooch at her throat by herself, which proved difficult one-handed, and she had no choice but to let him do it. Once that was done, he pulled the cloak over her head as tenderly as he could and laid it aside.

The top portion of her torso was covered in black leather, a top that left her pale waist and arms open, the latter to the shoulder. The majority of her legs were bare, too, at the courtesy of what appeared to be a dress of the same material, cut about two hands' breadth above her knees. The shirt's skintight collar reached halfway up her neck, making Gambit wonder how she managed to merely turn her head.

What perplexed him most was the thin, veil-like material that covered any exposed skin, save that on her face. Her legs, arms, and stomach were all protected by it.

He took in all of this in less than a second before shifting his concentration to the wound. The whip had split open the thin cover as well as the flesh underneath, creating a tangled mess of blood and black netting. Unlike the usually light lashings given to discipline a slave, this blow had been made to bleed. He moved to try and peel the clothing away from the gash, but as soon as his fingers neared her shoulder, the girl seized his wrist. Gambit's astonishment came from the fact that her fierce glare had softened.

"Don't touch mah skin."

"What?"

"Just don't!" she snapped, releasing him. As strange as this request seemed at the time, Gambit took care to avoid brushing her skin as he attempted stripping the tattered mesh from the cut. He studied it without a word until her impatience got the best of her. "Well?"

He shook his head. "It's still hard t'see." Gambit looked at her. "Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but…are you wearin' anythin' underneath?"

She took her time in answering. "…Yes."

"I know it's a lot t'ask of a stranger these days," he said earnestly, "but I need you t'trust me. Trust me when I say that I know what I'm doin'." She sighed.

"Do ah really have a choice at this point?"

"Of course."

She searched his eyes momentarily. The pain he could see in hers must have been excruciating by this point, despite what she said, for she muttered "Fine" and turned, allowing him room to reach behind her and undo the cords that held the top to her body. Gambit did this swiftly, and with as much care as he could conjure pulled it away from her. What he saw made his eyes widen in surprise.

Several inches above the white breast band, lying in the midst of her right collarbone, was the small silhouette of a black bird, its head turned to the left with wings outstretched. It was here that Gambit wavered.

"Dark Ravens," he said blankly. She nodded stiffly, and he then understood her words from earlier: _Whoever you are, ah should kill you where you lie._

Of course…the Dark Raven clan was a woman clan. Any man who so much as touched one of their slaves without permission from her master could suffer serious consequences; as for someone in Gambit's rank, the sentence of death was not uncommon.

Gambit could only imagine her shock as he ignored the tattoo and went back to her wound. It was not as deep as he had guessed, but he knew too well how it would ache for days. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand, and not waiting for her consent pressed it against her shoulder. She turned her groan of pain into a cough as she looked away. For a moment all was silent.

"Do you have a name?" Gambit put on an expression of innocent curiosity as she turned back.

"Does it matter?"

He removed the bandanna from her injury to glance at it. "We might be here for a while." She started to make a sound of annoyance and ended up sighing.

"…Rogue," she said at last. She caught his gaze as if daring him to say something about it.

"Rogue?" He nodded. "I'd say it fits." It was an honest confession. Silence fell again, and he tried not to smile as she asked at length,

"What about you?"

He considered carefully which name to give her. "Gambit." As he predicted, her head snapped in his direction.

"Gambit…?" With her right hand she lunged forward, and gripping his collar pulled it down. She gasped, and he let her study his own brand speechlessly. He could see her tracing the mark with a look of awe, forgetting her bleeding arm altogether. After a few moments he covered it back up and went back to work on her shoulder. "You're a…but you…" Rogue shook her head. "Ah thought you might be…when ah saw your—" The word _eyes_ died on her lips as he looked up. She dropped her stare, ashamed. "Forgive me. Ah didn't know."

"Would you have treated me any different if you had?" Gambit saw the look she was giving him and understood.

"It's…what ah've been taught," she explained. He nodded. He had seen that case before. Stillness fell between the two of them. "Thank you," she said suddenly.

"De rien, Mademoiselle." Gambit smiled. "Now…mind tellin' me why I can't touch you?" he asked, tightening the handkerchief around his hand. He had been looking for a way to distract her from the pain, not really expecting an answer, especially when her eyes flashed with the light he had seen during their battle at the question. But it diminished quickly, and in a low voice she said,

"Ah don't rightly know. Ah just know that…whenever someone does…they…get hurt." Gambit detected the self-hate in her words and stopped. Rogue was staring absentmindedly at a corner, deep in thought. He was too familiar with the burst of emotion in her voice, and decided to leave her alone for the present.

Once the cut was as clean as he could make it, he pocketed the bloody rag and drew out another, the last one he had until he fetched his things from his horse. He tied it around her arm as securely as possible, considering he had to avoid any flesh contact between them.

"That should hold it until you get home." Rogue looked down at the dressed wound loathingly. "…You've never been hit b'fore, have you?" he said slowly, reading her face. "Not by a whip, anyway." As if just seeing him for the first time, she stared, her eyes traveling over him mutely. No words were spoken, but he could see a suggestion of emotion—respect?—become clearer, followed by what looked like an implication of something similar to admiration. She blinked, and her face hardened. Now that she was no longer at his mercy, the personality from before began to resurface.

"That's none of your business." She stood, and then remembering that she was no longer wearing a shirt, stiffened and quickly pulled it back on.

"My horse is jus' outside, if you need a ride," Gambit offered, coming up behind her to help tie the top's strings.

"Ah'll walk," she replied briskly. "Just because ah'm a woman doesn't mean ah can't take care a' mahself. Get off, ah have it—" Gambit backed down. "Look, thank you for your help an' everythin', but ah really have to go." She buckled the brooch of her cloak and turned to him.

"Lady or not, no one should walk the streets alone an' injured, chérie."

"Ah'm not unarmed," Rogue reminded him. "Besides…ah've lingered too long," she said quickly, moving to leave.

"I know—" Gambit stepped in front of her to block her path. "But I'd feel better if I knew for sure that you were safe." Rogue knitted her brow as she looked up at him. She seemed puzzled by his concern, as though the very concept were new to her. Little by little, she began to shake her head.

"…Ah can't."

"Wait—"Gambit moved, placing himself in front of her again as she attempted to go around. "Jus' let me walk you there." She still looked doubtful, and taking advantage of her hesitation he added, "I still need t'get my horse, regardless, so I'll be back in a moment. I won' try t'stop you, but I jus' ask that you consider it." With that, he slipped out the hole in the wall and returned to where his steed was waiting. The horse whinnied irritably as his master appeared. "I know, I know…" Gambit quickly undid the harness. "Got a little tied up…I'll make it up t'you…" He led the beast back to the abandoned building, and leaving him at the corner went back to the secret entrance. "Rogue?" He was not surprised in the least when no one answered. He entered and looked around.

She was gone.

:xXxXx:

"I won' try an' sugarcoat the truth: things haven' gone too well since you left." Jean-Luc LeBeau studied his son solemnly. "I suppose I deserve some a' the blame for pushin' you too fast. You weren't ready."

"None of us were." Gambit kept his eyes on the roaring fire before his armchair, unblinking. The night was still warm, but three logs had been thrown on, anyway. "But I don' recall you havin' a problem with pushin' me too fast b'fore." Not even he could keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Jean-Luc sighed. "I don' blame you for feelin' that way. But you have t'understand: I was younger then…surrounded by enemies on all sides…then your gift comes along. It was like a blessin'."

Gambit looked at him. "For you, maybe. But what about the boy who had a death list on his hands b'fore mos' men even pick up a gun?" He stood up and strode to the window.

"Remy…" Jean-Luc's words hung in the thick air. "I don' want t'get into this with you on your firs' night back. You comin' back is the only thing I've had t'look forward to for the past three years—"

"How's Belle?" Gambit interrupted, not looking away from the grounds below. His father was silent.

"…No one knows." He watched his son for a sign. "She disappeared about a week after you left."

Gambit avoided Jean-Luc's eyes. Even if he had not known his arranged fiancée that well, guilt chewed at him for the way he had left her: no explanation, no farewell. No hint whatsoever that he even cared about her. He had done it before, with numbers upon numbers of other women; but the reality that this particular one had been his future wife made a crucial difference. "Julien?"

"Dead. At least, that's what they're sayin'," Jean-Luc went on, seeing Gambit's shock as he looked back. "There was a fight with another clan by the river. No one's seen him since. You would've thought that'd be the end of it." He laughed grimly. "Not a chance. They blame us for it. Sayin' he went mad after his sister disappeared's what drove him t'become so reckless. That, an' the shame a' his defeat." There was no question in Gambit's mind what defeat he meant.

He resisted the instinct to go rigid at the sound of a soft voice.

"Well, if it isn't the black sheep? Couldn' stay away from his flock forever, I suppose?"

"Nicolas," he said flatly, turning around. The old man stepped through the doorway with clasped hands, watching Gambit with a mixture of respect and wonder.

"You're a brave boy, comin' back here."

You're a brave boy…haven' shed a single tear, have you? 

"Especially after the two Boudreaux children's disappearance." Nicolas stopped next to Gambit, his wrinkled face creasing in a thousand places as he grinned.

"He's no boy anymore," Jean-Luc cut in. "Hasn't been for a long while." Nicolas tilted his head courteously to acknowledge the comment, and then putting an aged hand on Gambit's shoulder said quietly,

"We'll jus' have t'see about that, won't we?" His tone was light, but Gambit felt the man's hold constrict, too stealthily for Jean-Luc to notice, as he brought his face close to his, waiting for a response. Gambit forced a narrow-eyed expression that was as close to a smile as he was going to get.

"Guess we will."

Nicolas laughed pleasantly and patted him on the back. As if excited by the touch of their creator, old scars sent a wave of pain over Gambit's body. He ignored it and held Nicolas' gaze.

"You'd best put this one back t'work soon, if he's not already out of use," Nicolas added, passing Jean-Luc.

"Of course." Neither spoke until the old man was gone.

"He didn' die yet?" said Gambit disappointedly. Jean-Luc smiled.

"Don' count on it. He's got plenty a' spirit for another two score years."

"Pity." Gambit pushed himself away from the wall and bent down to pick up his worn leather bag. "Guess I'll head up. Busy day t'morrow."

Jean-Luc followed his son to the door. "You sure you don' want t'take the day off? Get readjusted?"

" 'Course not. I daresay Nicolas wouldn' take it sittin' down." Jean-Luc must have decided to leave the matter be for the moment, for he acted as though he had not heard Gambit's last words. Instead, he sounded relieved as he said,

"Then I won' bother hidin' that I can't wait for you t'get back into the kitchen. Eatin's been a torment for the last three years, though I haven' had the heart t'tell the poor souls responsible." Gambit shook his head, smiling, and turned to go, but Jean-Luc caught hold of his arm. "Remy," he started in a low voice, "there's somethin' I jus' don' understand about this whole mess." Gambit reluctantly raised his eyes. "That night…you could've killed Julien then an' there an' gotten away with it. You knew he wouldn't quit until he'd taken you down. Why didn' you?"

Gambit thought back to that night. It was true: he had had Julien at his sword tip…his rival's own blade had been tossed aside seconds before… Julien was taunting him, telling him to prove his courage and kill him. But Gambit had stepped down, saying that murder was no way to prove a man's worth.

He broke out of his thoughts and looked at his father. "It's no sport t'kill the defenseless."


	2. Anonymous

Prologue

It was a simple thing to ask, and an even simpler thing to give. Whether in the arms of a lover or under a stern hand of discipline, human contact has always been expected in society. Thus it was that, save for a select few, this gift was doomed to be taken for granted through generations of even the most humble of spirits. Very little was known, specifically in this age, of its exact significance, for the thought that it could ever be impossible was preposterous, a prospect envisioned by none.

In the eyes of many men, contact was perceived as a trait of inseparable virtue, an attribute that, even amid its lost glory, was like the name given at birth that would endure until his grave.

In all aspects, Rogue was nameless. She had long ceased to care for the title received at her first breath, considering it lost in history, an element of a life that no longer existed. After the coming of her Age, that name meant nothing: it was naught more than a vague memory of her innocence, a time before she had built the walls of ice around her heart in a vow to never harm another.

Emotions were now empty to her, petty hindrances that could bring only more pain and misery into her young life. Not yet in full womanhood, she possessed the spirit of a warrior—oblivious to those feelings lost in war, giving no pity and expecting none in return.

That perception made itself clear in her face, bestowing her with skin as pale as frost, rivaled only by the deep, thoughtful eyes which always seemed to reflect some form of suppressed anguish. Her dark hair never exceeded her shoulders, contradicting the traditions of her day in all its auburn beauty. Locks of pure white rebelled against the red-brown shading on either side of her face.

Rogue was undoubtedly a fair maiden, although her isolated nature and hesitation to trust had turned away any suitors, several of whom had been above her class. They did not understand how such beauty could mix so fluently with the heart of a loner, and so in their rejection grew furious at her refusal. When the truth of her barrier was revealed, their aggravation developed into hate, and she was forced to flee for her life.

They had learned that the girl's touch was of the blackest evil, a poison to the flesh of any whom she made contact with. It was said that she stole the life of another only to join it with her own, an attempt at self-made immortality.

She was proclaimed a Daughter of Satan, facing expulsion from every town she turned to, feared for the tales of witchcraft that followed in her footsteps. Children trailed and mocked her in the streets, calling her Black Sorceress and withdrawing in terror whenever her gaze fell upon them. She was refused service by local shops, their merchants dreading a curse on their business. Even those of her own kind feared and hated her, for their conditions had worsened with her coming.

It was not until all hope was seemingly lost, and she looked forward to death as one might await the end of a workday, that her master and half-mother, Irene, received word of a country in the north, where a childhood friend of hers had recently set up a clan. It was the one chance for Rogue to start a new life, to cast off her old identity, if she so wished, and escape the hate of her homeland. She agreed, and under the cloak of an autumn night, they set out on a journey that Rogue prayed would be the last.

For the first time in her life that she could remember, she was welcomed. The clan's leader—a kind, beautiful young woman, Raven Darkholme—promised her safety only in exchange for her loyalty. This woman was the one member of the First Class besides Irene to treat Rogue with such respect, and as a result she earned the girl's allegiance sooner than any.

There was but one favor that Rogue wanted from her: as with her old life, she desired to be rid of her name, a final sign that she was truly free from the previous year of abhorrence. With the Lady Darkholme's consent, the dejected child of before, the girl chased from her home at the defense that she was a witch, was declared dead.

Rogue was born, the unforgettable memories of suffering her only connection to the outside world.

If a title were indeed the symbol of contact, she was, without question, nameless.

:xXx:

A gentle breeze blew in through the open window, interrupting the silence of the small room with the ruffling of spring's newly grown leaves several stories below. Shadows created by the afternoon sun leapt through to dance and waver over the walls of white stone. The nearby corridor was silent, save for the occasional brisk footsteps of a slave on the way to work.

Rogue took in each sound and sight almost instinctively, a habit perfected in her times of traveling. She was aware of every crease in the sheets beneath her body, of each individual strand of white hair that fell across her face. She could detect the smells of the kitchen mingling with those of the stables, a homely, calming scent. Rolling over, she studied the empty ceiling indifferently, just as she had on so many sleepless nights.

Without thinking, her bare hand went to her left shoulder to trace the closed wound that lied there, now more than two weeks old. Rogue had given no intended heed to the events since their occurrence, although more than once her dreams had been riddled with the repeated pain of leather tearing open flesh, ever followed by the flicker of red on black. She would always wake in the dead of night, her scar throbbing painfully, half-expecting to find Monsieur Giuliani standing over her again with his whip. Despite having forced herself to forget what she could of the incident, it was impossible to control her memories during sleep.

The bedroom door opened, breaking Rogue out of her thoughts. Swiftly she drew the glove back over her hand as she sat up.

"Is this how you intend spending every break you receive?"

Rogue allowed a minor smile to upturn the corners of her mouth as she looked at her clan sister. "Is there any better way?"

"If it makes you late for your duties, you'd better hope so." Scarlet sat down at the dresser they shared, glancing briefly at her reflection before turning to Rogue. "Irene has sent for you."

Although older by only a season, Scarlet was taller than her sister by a good several inches. Her customary outfit may have begotten her code name, a close-fitting top of dark red with sweeping sleeves accompanying a pair of black trousers, an unheard-of custom for women even in her rank. Her pitch-black hair hung no further than her chin, a length shorter than most men's. By all accounts, the woman was a rebel, wearing her own clan mark of the raven—crimson, in her case, as opposed to the usual black—openly. Like Rogue, she was more commonly known by her slave alias, choosing to leave her birth name, Wanda, as far behind as was within her power.

Rogue nodded. She stood and made her way over to the full-length mirror in the corner, checking to make sure her uniform was straight and that no netting had slipped to expose her skin before she set to her chores. As she was doing this, she became aware of Scarlet's stare. "What?" Rogue looked over at her curiously.

Scarlet's eyes watched hers solemnly, as if debating whether to voice what she was thinking. "You've been acting…" She chose her words carefully. "Strange lately. Are you alright?"

"Why shouldn't ah be?" Rogue put on a puzzled expression as she neared the door.

"You've been more withdrawn than usual for a fortnight, now. Even for you, it's strange."

Rogue forced a small laugh. "You've much to do. Worryin' about me shouldn't be one of them." She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her, and then with a silent sigh set off towards where she knew Irene was waiting.

She would never refer to Scarlet as a friend, although she was probably the closest thing to a friend that she had anymore. Nonetheless, Rogue felt that she could confide in her, but only to a certain degree. Rogue's trust was a hard-earned one, and even then there were matters that she desired to work over by herself.

She knocked twice on the set of double doors and waited.

"Come in." Entering quickly, Rogue caught sight of Irene and bowed in respect.

"You summoned me, milady?" She chanced a look up and saw that the woman was alone. Irene gestured for her to approach.

"Sit beside me, child. But close the door first, quickly." After obeying this last command, Rogue, sensing the tension in her master's voice, hastily crossed the dimly lit common room to seat herself on the plush couch. The only light was from the tall window on the opposite wall, but heavy black curtains had been drawn across most of it, allowing only a few thin rays of daylight to penetrate the darkness. Yet even in the gloom, her half-mother's eyes shone pearly white as Rogue sat down on her left. "There's no time to explain," said Irene hurriedly. Reaching into her emerald green cloak, she drew out a small envelope sealed with the Dark Raven crest. She paused, listening, as though to confirm that no one else was near before pushing it into Rogue's hands. "I need you to deliver this for me. All of the messengers are out today, so you'll have to walk."

Rogue examined it. There was neither a name nor an address. "To whom?"

"Another clan lives southeast of here, in Les Galen. Their leader is Jean-Luc LeBeau, a kind man. You'll have nothing to fear from him." Irene put a hand on Rogue's shoulder and said sternly, "He must receive this tonight, do you understand?" Rogue nodded.

"Yes, Madame."

"No eyes should see this letter, save his. Let no one else handle it." Irene stood. "His clan rests in the heart of the Marshlands, seven miles as the crow flies. If you leave now, it will already be dusk by the time you arrive. Come." Rogue followed her to the door silently, attempting to take in all of this new information. Irene stopped as she gripped the handle to add in a hushed voice, "Speak of this to none, Rogue, not even Scarlet. Now get your cloak and be off, swiftly! And take care to avoid the Moronnar—these are dangerous times." Rogue moved to exit, then stopped.

"Ah beg your pardon, milady, but what clan is this?"

"The Thieves clan. But don't worry!" she said reassuringly, guessing Rogue's unease. "Jean-Luc is expecting this letter. He will not let any harm come to you."

Bewildered at Irene's strange behavior, but knowing better than to question, Rogue bowed and departed.

:xXx:

The sun had just set when Rogue passed through the cast iron gates of the Thieves clan. The old manor within was both impressive and forbidding, with ivy ascending the stone walls to wind about its many windows, most of which opened up into naught but blackness. Various statues were scattered about the lawn in a somewhat orderly fashion, despite their cracked and weathered conditions. A marble fountain sent small streams of crystal-clear water three feet into the air before collecting it again in a wide basin.

Rogue observed the layout of the place wordlessly as she came to the door. With the exception of the fountain and her own footsteps, not a sound of life could be heard. She took the brass knocker in her hand and brought it down twice, and then busied herself with trying to clean the hem of her cloak, now spotted and soiled with mud from the surrounding swamp. She had met no resistance on her journey, but in a way she felt she would have been more relaxed if she had. Rogue was unfamiliar with the history of the Thieves clan, but her imagination had left her suspecting to be ambushed at every corner along the way.

She double-checked her pocket for the letter, now what she guessed to be the hundredth time since she set out, and sighed impatiently. The air was thick and exceptionally humid for spring, but she had grown used to it in the last hour. She still donned her cloak, uncomfortable with the thought of removing it in unknown territory.

Rogue was considering knocking again when one of the doors finally opened, spilling yellow light onto the terrace.

"Yes?" She saw the face before she heard the voice, but it made no difference. She was looking up at an elderly man, his wrinkled face courteous and polite. What remained of his thinning hair was snow white, illuminating his bright blue eyes. He was thin, but strong looking, and he stood upright, showing no sign of weariness. If not for his smile, which in her eyes appeared just as distrustful as his voice sounded, Rogue may have let her guard down, thankful for some sign that she was not alone in this desolate land. But something inside of her said to be wary of him, and it was there that her disliking of the old man first began.

"Yes, ah—" She fumbled in her pocket for the letter, and pulling it out showed it to him. "Ah'm to deliver this to the leader of the Thieves clan." The old man's gaze traveled over the envelope impassively.

"I'll take it to him," he said calmly, holding out a hand. Rogue wavered.

"Ah was told to deliver it to him personally." The man stared her down, unblinking, and she did the same until her eyes watered.

"Very well," he said at length. He stepped back to allow her to enter, and she pocketed the letter once more. "Wait here. I'll tell Monsieur LeBeau of your arrival." He strode around a corner and out of sight, leaving Rogue to inspect the foyer. The main source of light was a large chandelier overhead, its breadth causing the wide hall to appear narrow. Walls of yellow-white stretched high, complementing the bright red carpet underfoot.

Rogue did not have to wait long. Hardly five minutes after the man had left, he reappeared, following a much younger figure whom she knew must be Jean-Luc. She bowed briefly as he advanced.

"Please, Mademoiselle," he said respectfully, motioning for her to straighten up, "you're my guest." When he was near enough, Jean-Luc bowed in his turn. She thought she could see a look of disapproval on the old man's face. "You mus' be tired after such a journey. Come, you should rest b'fore settin' out again."

"Oh," said Rogue, slightly taken aback. "Please, mah lord, ah don't mean to offend you, but ah really must get back—" Jean-Luc shook his head.

"I can't be a poor host t'such a polite beauty." Smiling warmly, he turned to look at the other man. "Nicolas, you're dismissed."

"Nay, Monsieur," said Nicolas, inclining his head. "I have no nightly duties at the moment." Jean-Luc nodded, and Rogue was soon led down the corridor and into a large den, where the thief leader bade her take a seat. It was not until after she had done so that he asked to see the letter. She handed it to him, glad to be rid of the burden, and without even glancing at it, he slipped it into his coat pocket.

"Can I offer you somethin' t'drink?" he asked. Not wanting to insult him, Rogue accepted tea, although she merely pretended to sip it every few minutes. Jean-Luc took the armchair opposite hers, and to avoid his eyes, Rogue fixed her own upon the empty fireplace. "I don' believe I caught your name?" he said.

"Rogue."

"You're a brave woman, Rogue. Not many would journey t'these parts, especially after dark."

"Ah'm used to travelin'," she said simply.

"So I've heard."

Rogue watched him, looking for a hint that something was lying behind his words. But Jean-Luc showed no indication, and she decided to disregard his comment.

He questioned her about the journey from her clan out of courtesy, but it was evident that his mind was distracted. Rogue's cup was still full when she set it down.

"Ah appreciate your hostin' me, lord, but if ah don't set out soon, ah'm afraid ah'll be missed before long."

Jean-Luc smiled knowingly. "As you wish." He stood and turned to Nicolas, who had not left since first entering with them. "Nicolas, this young lady needs an escort. Send for Remy."

"Oui, Monsieur." Nicolas bowed and left.

"It's not necessary—" Rogue began, rising from her seat, but Jean-Luc held up a hand.

"Nonsense, Rogue. It's no trouble. He's my best man—you'll be as safe with him as anywhere." Reluctantly Rogue sat back down, vaguely annoyed. She knew he was being polite, but she had traveled after dark plenty of times without a guard, and the last thing she wanted was to walk seven miles with a man she had never met before.

Presently, Nicolas' footsteps could be heard nearby, now accompanied by another. Rogue restrained a sigh as he appeared in the doorway. "Monsieur, you sent for him…" He stepped aside, and Rogue barely managed to hold back a cry of surprise.

The other man bore a long brown coat that reached down to his knees, lacking the usual coat tails and exact design that were common in those days, under which a form-fitting suit of black and grey could be seen. He wore boots of silver, as well as a pair of black gloves, removed of all the fingers except the middle two on each. His hair was still long, although it had been trimmed to where he could go without pulling it back. A familiar sword hung at his left side.

Regardless of his outlandish garb, those eyes of ember were unmistakable.

Rogue leapt to her feet as Gambit's look of amazement broke into a smile. "Bonjour, chérie." He bowed low before approaching.

"Gambit," she acknowledged coolly. She wished to make it clear she remembered him, yet not overly so.

"T'what do I owe the pleasure?" Gambit stopped in front of her to glance at Jean-Luc, and suddenly Rogue found that everything made sense. That day in town: of course. She should have guessed by his brand what he was. She marveled at how she could have been so ignorant.

Rogue shoved aside her confused thoughts to listen to the two men. "If m'lady will have me this time, I'd be honored t'accompany her." Both Gambit and Jean-Luc looked expectantly at her, who tried not to flush under their gazes.

"It's really not necessary," she insisted. "Ah've journeyed at night since ah was a girl, an' have yet to meet any trouble."

"But you weren't travelin' so near the Moronnar then," said Gambit. "The Marshlands are dangerous after nightfall." Rogue remembered Irene's words: _And take care to avoid the Moronnar—these are dangerous times._ She then realized that she was unsure of just how her half-mother was involved with Jean-Luc, and that refusing his offer could be a dangerous move if she offended him. She was forced to swallow her pride as she responded, as graciously as she could manage,

"Very well, mah lord."

:xXx:

"Ah'm not takin' a horse."

Rogue and Gambit were alone in the stables, with him setting to the task of saddling a strongly built grey stallion. "Beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Ah'm not takin' one," Rogue repeated. "Ah walked one way, an' ah can walk the other." Gambit's eyes seemed to flash perceptively as he watched her.

"Ah." He studied his steed. "You're sure? You're welcome t'ride my own mount; Raoul's twice as gentle as I am, an' jus' as polite." The horse whinnied as if in agreement.

"No. But thank you for the offer," she replied. She felt guilty for turning on him in her frustration, but the truth was that, even if one of her chief duties was looking after her clan's horses, actually riding the beasts was a whole other matter. "Ah'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. "Ah'm just not used to such generosity from strangers." Gambit smiled as he fastened Raoul's bridle.

"There's nothin' t'forgive. Kindness unlooked for deserves suspicion durin' these times. Especially for us." He stepped past her, leaving Rogue to stare after him as he led his horse to the open door.

Since they were on the side of the mansion, it was a bit of a walk to get back around to the front gate. Once there, Rogue automatically took to the path by which she had arrived, only to discover that Gambit was heading in the opposite direction.

"This way," he called. She did not move, and he turned back around.

"But ah came in through here."

"Exactly. An' look at your clothes." Gambit raised an eyebrow before resuming his course. Frowning, Rogue followed him into the gloom of the trees. It was already night, but the shadows cast by the boughs overhead seemed to darken the scene. "That path's been abandoned for years," he explained as she opened her mouth. "The one I use is a little harder t'find, but worth it." She fancied she could make out a rough trail in the dim lighting as her eyes adjusted, although branches, trees, and shrubbery continued to spring up at unawares every few steps.

A chill crept up her back when she could see that Gambit's red eyes were glowing softly. Forgetting the heat, she drew her hood over her head and kept her stare fixed on the trail.

Gambit said little, speaking up only to warn her of an upcoming hole or log. But the lonely, incessant sound of their footsteps, mingled with the occasional snorts of Raoul and chirps of surrounding crickets, soon became more than Rogue could bear.

"Careful—" Gambit reached out to catch her as she stumbled on some unseen root. Rogue caught herself easily, and out of habit recoiled quickly from his touch. He apologized as they continued on, and did not talk again for several moments. "How's your shoulder?" he asked suddenly, turning those scarlet lights upon her.

"Healed." She looked at him, her expression softening a little. "You do good work with medicine." Gambit appeared concerned.

"You didn' have a doctor look at it?"

"How could ah? That would've meant revealin' what you did." Rogue slowed, and he did the same. "You're no fool, Gambit. You know the penalty for your actions, no matter the reason."

"Then I thank you for sparin' me." He was forced to stop as she stepped in front of him, causing their chests to brush as he nearly collided into her. Her face came close to his.

"Understand this: ah didn't do it for you," she said firmly. "Betrayin' you would've been dishonorable after what you did for me. It just so happens that mah code of honor is more important to me than obeyin' the rules." Gambit said nothing, but she could see his gaze traveling over her face.

"Nonetheless, you have my thanks." He tilted his head toward her in a sign of respect as she backed down.

They continued walking, saying little, the silence of the wood pressing in around them. "Which way?" Rogue asked at last. They had come upon a two-way fork.

"We stick t'the right for another mile or so," he replied, going around her. "From there we head directly west."

"Ah see you've spent a lot of time in this wood."

"You could say that." He brushed some hanging moss out of the way, and then hung back to hold it for her.

"Have you always lived in this country, then?" she said distractedly, picking her way around.

Gambit scratched Raoul's ears, not meeting her eyes. "Since I was a boy."

"But ah only came to this country about two years ago," said Rogue, puzzled, "an' ah hadn't seen you before the other day."

"That would make sense, then—I've been travelin' on business the past few years." Gambit smiled to himself.

"What?"

"It's jus'…for someone new in town, you sure can cause a lot of trouble."

"You speak as though you didn't know who you were dealin' with that day." At a questioning look, Rogue went on, "Monsieur Giuliani's a cruel man. Ah was foolish enough to think ah could take revenge by stealin' from him." Even as she said it, Rogue realized just how much of a risk Gambit had taken by helping her that day—if Giuliani had known what he was, she doubted whether he would not have received the same treatment. But if Gambit had fooled her into thinking that a noble prince had stumbled upon the scene, despite his unique features, she figured he had easily deceived the merchant, as well.

"A thief's thrill of the hunt..." Gambit's voice was impressed.

Longing to say what was on her mind, Rogue began hesitantly, "Until tonight, ah didn't realize you…you were a…" Her words caught as their eyes met.

"Thief?" Gambit smiled again. "I figured you'd guessed..." One of his fingers grazed his collarbone, and Rogue felt a slight tingling along the base of her throat. With some effort she confessed,

"Ah'm not familiar with many of the clan traditions in Laurendor, save perhaps a few in its capital city." Gambit nodded.

"You shouldn' be. It's a fair country, but its customs and ways take a while t'learn. D'you spend a lot of time in Ithirath, then?"

Rogue shook her head. "Only when ah'm sent there on business. Otherwise ah avoid cities."

"Then that's where we differ." Their speech was interrupted as they came to a small bridge crossing the Silvaren River. Leading his horse, Gambit went first, and once they were over their talk recommenced. "As for Ithirath, I've always admired it." He fell back so that she walked a little ways ahead. "But considerin' it's where I firs' laid eyes on you, I'd have t'say it's even more beautiful."

His comment had caught her off guard. Rogue stopped, immediately feeling fury rise up, both at him for breaking yet another one of her clan's laws, and at herself for letting it go that far. Without a sound she drew out her hidden knife and spun to face him. But he had been ready, and in a clash of metal their blades met, reflecting the pale moonlight onto the other's face.

"Can a man offer you a compliment without the risk of gettin' impaled?" he asked calmly. Her hood had fallen back, revealing her full rage. Rogue tried to move around his sword, but he had a good deal more strength and experience. She knew the only reason she had done so well against him before was because then, he had been surprised.

She glared. "You know perfectly well what you were doin'." She drew back and attempted to go around his guard, but again he blocked her, releasing the reins on his horse to do so.

"Lesson one in swordplay, Mademoiselle: when words are the only attack, take your time t'draw blade. Lesson two—" Gambit twisted his wrist in a movement too fast for her to follow, and a second later her dagger landed several feet away. "—Let nothin' distract you in battle." He moved, placing himself between Rogue and her weapon, his own raised. "An' take care t'be less predictable," he advised. "I knew what you would do b'fore you did." He sheathed his sword and stepped aside.

"So you were testin' me?" Rogue picked up her knife, and seeing there was no longer any threat, sheathed it as well.

"I meant what I said, if it's any consolation, m'lady." He gave a half-bow.

"You would've done better not to admit that."

"Then consider me a sufferer for a cause."

She scowled. "Just don't expect me to go on sparin' your life forever."

"I'd never ask such a thing. But here—" Gambit pushed back his coat, revealing his sword hilt. "I'm not defenseless this time." Rogue saw what he meant and faltered.

"You know as well as ah do that ah can't get through this wood alone," she said finally. "Killin' you would be suicide." She had been turning to continue along the path when suddenly Raoul gave a scream. "What's—" she started, looking back, but was cut off as Gambit hurled them both to the ground.

"Get down!"

"Hey!" Startled, she pushed against his chest as he crouched on hands and knees above her. "What are you _doin'_? Get off—" She had just said this when Gambit sat up, and taking hold of her shoulders directed her gaze to her right. On the exact level that her head had been moments before, a black arrow had struck a nearby tree, embedding its tip deep into the bark. Gambit turned her back to him.

"Stay low," he breathed. "It came from between the trees, not in 'em. Be ready t'draw your weapon." She nodded slowly, and Gambit motioned for her to follow. They crept back towards where Raoul was waiting, not far from the river, and once concealed by a throng of broad trees, they both climbed to their feet. Gambit put his back against a trunk, gesturing that she should do the same. After they were safely side-by-side, Gambit whispered, "I can't get a good aim without lookin' firs', an' once I do, he'll see me anyway. So get ready." Rogue blinked, confused, but was soon answered as his hand strayed to the inside of his coat. A second later he withdrew what appeared to be several playing cards.

"_What—_"

"Hush." Gambit studied her. "Whatever you do, don' yell."

Rogue then received one of the greatest surprises of her life. As she watched, the cards in his hand seemed to ignite, although he did not flinch. She jumped back, but he was expecting that reaction. He caught her wrist and pulled her back to him. "Trust me," he said softly. Rogue observed him speechlessly, trying to read his face, now illuminated by the yellow light of the cards.

"Do ah have a choice?" she murmured. Smiling, Gambit released her. He inched over to the side of the tree, and giving one last reassuring look back, he leapt out from behind it. Rogue saw the cards fly, countered by several arrows. She started as the unmistakable sound of an explosion erupted nearby, making her jump away from the tree.

"Move!" Gambit whistled, and Raoul thundered past Rogue to his master, who seized the beast's reins in one hand and her glove in the other. The three of them ran, Gambit leading, oblivious to the falling arrows as he led them deeper into the trees, up to the point where Rogue could no longer see her hand in front of her face. Whether it was her imagination or reality, Rogue thought she could hear hurried footsteps pursuing them. Her fears were confirmed when harsh voices shouted commands to one another nearby, from the sound of which still behind them.

Somewhere along the way, Rogue's fingers slipped out of Gambit's grip as she plunged down an unseen hill. Black shapes shot past as she tumbled, making her dizzy, until what remained of her sight was a blur. Twigs and thorns tore at her hair and clothes. Without warning she landed with a cry on her back, panting hard to make up for her lost breath. She still could not see, and had to lie still and wait for her senses to catch up with her before attempting to move.

After a while, her vision had cleared enough for her to see that she had landed in the midst of a small clearing surrounded on all sides by black trees, the shadows below their boughs impossible to penetrate. Rolling over onto her hands, Rogue could feel damp grass beneath them. She stood up and looked around. The hill down which she had fallen was nowhere in sight, and she began to wonder if she were not merely dreaming the whole thing. But she then noticed a cliff several yards above her head, and realized with a shock that she must have fallen from it. She only thanked the heavens that she had landed on her back, and not her neck.

"Gambit?" she called out, as loud as she dared. No answer. Rogue took a few tentative steps in one direction and called again. When it was clear she was alone, she turned to her only options. She was not sure whom the attackers had been going after, or why, but she guessed that her fall had made enough noise to attract half of them. The bow she had kept hidden so far was useless in the dark, and so she was left with only one choice for a weapon. Before she could retrieve her dagger, a gloved hand covered her mouth, pulling her back against a body much bigger than her own.

She fought brutally, but an arm quickly pinned her hands to her sides, steadying her struggles. A deep voice she did not recognize hissed something in her ear, although in vain, for he spoke French. Before long, she was aware of other dark shapes emerging from the surrounding trees. Around half a dozen figures in black hoods and cloaks were soon assembled before Rogue and her captor, their faces concealed by masks. Some had horses, all of which were black.

Once all were apparently accounted for, the one holding Rogue removed the hand on her lips. "Let go a' me!" she ordered. In reply he shoved her down onto her knees as his companions laughed. Another figure, the tallest of the group, came forward to stand directly in front of her. He, too, spoke to her briefly in French, and then finally perceiving that she could not understand him, he went to the Common Tongue.

"Where's the thief?"

"Ah don't know," she snapped, trying not to wince as her arms were twisted behind her.

"You've got no reason t'protect him, girl. Tell us where he is, an' we'll let you go."

"Ah said ah don't know! We were separated."

The man lowered himself until they were face-to-face. His features were impossible to distinguish, but Rogue was able to make out his eyes through the slits of his mask. Hard and grey as he studied her, they were hollow, empty of emotion. It made Rogue want to shudder as they moved over her, but she gritted her teeth and resisted.

And yet for all their coldness, those eyes seemed familiar.

He reached inside his cloak, and a second later drew out a knife as long as Rogue's forearm. It caught a ray of pale light as he lifted it. "I've got no more love for you than for the one we're tryin' t'catch." He traced the tip of the blade along her exposed throat. "So if I have t'force it out a' you, so be it. It's your choice." The dagger retreated, waiting for her answer.

As soon as she was clear of the knife, Rogue gave a defiant cry as she twisted her leg around her captor's and threw herself to the side. The man lost his hold on her right arm as he fell, colliding into the leader of the group with a curse. Rogue jumped up, and succeeded in unlatching his fingers from her remaining wrist by bringing the heel of her boot down on his elbow. She took off, tearing into the protection of the trees as the leader bellowed orders. She heard heavy footsteps following, sometimes right behind her, sometimes far off. One sound that did not fade was the galloping of their steeds, outpacing her own steps four to one. Rogue had enough sense left to cut through some of the thicker areas in hopes of slowing down those on horseback, but for every one she threw off, another soon caught up.

She considered bringing out a weapon, but decided it was too much of a risk. Her enemies' use of the bow suggested they were slaves as well, but she was not going to take the chance unless she had to. Their behavior had made her wonder if they were not actually of the First Class; what members of that rank had to do with herself or Gambit, she did not know.

Rogue was just passing under the boughs of a particularly large tree when a shape leapt in her path. She jumped aside, narrowly missing the horse, and hit the ground. Before she could raise herself, the dark rider reared up his mount, and she prepared to feel hooves crush her spine. Suddenly a different shape appeared, putting itself between her and the other rider. The first horse snorted and backed down, but its master was not so easily intimidated by the grey stallion. He drew blade, and Gambit did the same.

Rogue watched as the swords of the two riders met, drew back, and clashed again. She was not sure how long the duel lasted, but in the end the dark rider fell, blood visible on his black chest by a slender beam of moonlight that had stolen through the trees. Gambit sheathed his weapon and dismounted.

"Rogue?"

Rogue nodded as he helped her up. "Ah'm uninjured." She avoided looking at the man's body and pushed him away. "Who _are_ they?" she demanded, regaining her wits. "An' why are they after you?"

"I'll explain everythin' later," he promised. "Right now, we jus' have t'make sure there'll _be_ a later. We've steered too far t'the East an' crossed into the Moronnar. If you wish t'get out in the same state we came in, come on." But even as those words were spoken, voices could be heard coming closer. Several more hooded figures emerged through the trees, one on horseback. Gambit made no movement except to place a hand on his hilt. The middle one addressed him in French; without doubt Rogue could tell it was not the leader from before. The exchange was brief—the man questioned him, and then only laughed when Gambit responded. When he drew out his sword and began to advance, Gambit whispered, "I know these men. You _mustn't _draw blood—don' attack unless it's a choice b'tween life or death." He then bared his own blade and stepped forward. Grudgingly Rogue hung back, but her eyes never left Gambit.

The first opponent, the new leader, did not last long. Gambit did not kill him, but the man was soon in no shape to try his luck again. His comrades swarmed over and around his wounded form, forgetting Rogue in their eagerness to take down his conqueror, only to suffer the same fate; or in the case of one or two, worse. Gambit's strength and speed were more than many could handle, enabling him to deal several wounds without receiving one himself. His blade moved faster than the eye could follow, downing three men in the time it took for one to think of his next move.

Most of his foes had been dealt with when Rogue, finally overcoming her shock at his expertise, spotted one figure silently steal his way up to Gambit from behind. There was no time to warn him—there was a flash of metal, and Gambit cried out in surprise, clutching his left side.

Without thinking, Rogue tore off her glove and dashed forward to where the coward was raising his dagger high, preparing to finish Gambit off. "No!" She seized where the man's sleeve had fallen back to expose his pale wrist. At first, he tried to shake her off, but soon went rigid. Both he and Rogue gave exclamations of pain as it began—Rogue felt sweat break out on her face as images, memories that were not her own, covered her eyes, blinding her. A wave of emotions that she had never felt before engulfed her mind, threatening to drown her.

She knew everything—his name, his family, where he lived. Then the most previous of memories began to surface—_she_ was stabbing Gambit. She could feel the warmth of his blood as she spilled it—she _wanted_ him dead. Those were her orders—

Rogue gave a cry as she released him. The man fell to the ground, unmoving. She looked up and saw the other figures back away, afraid. She saw Gambit, back on his feet, staring at her, too. But he recovered quickly, and hurrying forward pulled her up. "No—" She tried to resist—he was the enemy—he was not _her_ enemy—he had saved her—

"Gambit," she moaned, holding her head, "ah can't…" Suddenly her own memories came rushing back. She was Rogue. A member of the Dark Ravens. Not an Assassin.

"Come on—" Gambit was trying to pull her along. She stumbled along after him over to his horse, and said nothing when he mounted and offered his hand. She took it, and he hoisted her up in front of him. Rogue looked back. Their remaining enemies were no longer bothering with the pursuit; they were looking uneasily at the motionless body, unwilling to face the same.

Raoul broke into a gallop and sped them away into the trees. Rogue was thankful that Gambit had chosen not to ask questions—yet. The trees gradually grew thinner, and then at length stopped altogether. A wide, open plain lay before them, with only a few patches of foliage here and there to break the endless, rolling sea of grass. The horse kept on. Riding sidesaddle, Rogue had no choice but to cling to Gambit or risk bouncing out of her seat.

She sighed. The journey was not yet halfway over, and it was already turning into a long night.

:xXx:

Gambit finally stopped in the midst of a group of several small trees, through which ran a calm stream that, like everything else in the clearing, was revealed in shades of white, blue and black caused by the bright moonlight. They had ridden for a mile or so without speaking, knowing that any words would easily betray their emotions.

Once Raoul had come to a halt, Gambit slid off, and Rogue allowed him to take her hand and help her down. Even after her feet were on the ground, he lingered, and Rogue reluctantly looked up to meet his gaze.

"Alright, m'lady?"

"Ah'm fine." She brushed him off and took a few steps away, her back to him.

Gambit waited a moment before venturing to ask softly, "Was that your…gift, then?"

"It's no gift." Rogue looked over her shoulder. "It's a curse. Ah can't touch anyone without hurtin' 'em." She held up her hand, still bare, for she had lost her glove during the absorption. "Ah'm not sure what ah do," she continued in a low voice. "All ah know is that it's like ah'm in their head. Ah see what they've seen. Feel what they feel…ah take a piece of their life. There's no way to stop it." She turned back to Gambit. His face was inexpressive.

"That man back there…is he—?"

"No," she said firmly. "No. He's alive. Ah don't kill 'em. But what does the Assassins clan want with you?" Gambit blinked.

"Clan rivalries," he said after a pause. "The Thieves an' Assassins have been enemies since b'fore my day."

"…Gambit," she said clearly. She straightened up, determined to face the issue head-on. "Ah'll understand if you wish to turn back here. Ah can find the rest a' the way on mah own—"

"No," Gambit interrupted. She stared. Rogue could see no hint of fear or doubt on his face as he watched her, and something inside of her seemed to leap into her throat as she realized: he was serious. He was not afraid of her, of what she was.

The two of them would later look back on that moment as the starting point of their history, for it was then that they fully recognized the link between themselves, as frail and slender as it was at the time. Whether for good or ill, they were forever connected.

Rogue smiled gratefully, and then quickly hid her face to regain her composure. By doing so she caught sight of the dark stain on a silver portion of his shirt, almost completely hidden by his coat. "You're bleedin'—"

Gambit looked down. "It's nothin'," he assured her. He removed his coat, and lifting the side of his shirt examined the cut. Rogue came closer to get a better view. He had been moving around when his attacker struck, avoiding a direct hit. But as thin as it was, it wound from his side to nearly the middle of his stomach and was bleeding freely. "Jus' a scratch," he said calmly. She frowned.

"Sit down," she told him. "We're not movin' until it's cleaned up some."

He gave her an interested look. "Fortunately for you, m'lady, I'm fond of stubborn women. But I've dealt with worse on my own." Nevertheless, Gambit pulled his shirt over his head and made his way over to the stream. As he got down on his knees, Rogue uttered a gasp of repulsion, her hands flying to her mouth. She could see him close his eyes in a silent curse as she took a few steps backward, horrified.

"What…" She stared, unable to find any words. When he did not reply, she came up slowly behind him. "What…are they?"

Crisscrossing his bare back like some hellish web, a number of deep scars were visible. As though entranced, Rogue tentatively reached out with her gloved hand and felt the tips of her fingers brush one of the lashings. It was the longest whip-weal she could see, extending diagonally from the left shoulder to the lower back.

She had seen the scars of other slaves, including those of her own sisters from past masters, yet none were as these. Wounds were dealt as a form of discipline, rarely anything lethal. But the ones she saw now…they appeared rather to be the product of some torture experiment. Little by little she traced the mark's full course with her fingertips, spellbound, and then becoming self-conscious drew back as if burned.

"Memories," Gambit answered. He turned, his features impassive, and for the second time Rogue's eyes took in his branding: in the exact same place as her own, written in some ancient lettering, a capital T resided, its blood red hue standing for immunity seeming to enhance that of his eyes.

"What memories?" she said quietly, finding her voice.

Gambit studied her, and Rogue had the feeling of being completely open under his piercing gaze. "…Ones that aren't meant t'be forgotten." With no further comment he cleaned the wound and drew his shirt back on quickly. Rogue averted her eyes, disinclined to put any more thought into what she had seen, but could not help thinking: had Jean-Luc's act of kindness been nothing but a masquerade? Thanks to the man she had touched, she now knew the relationship between Gambit and the thief leader, making her wonder if it was not Jean-Luc's hand that had dealt the scarring blows.

Yet no matter how she scolded herself for trusting the man, or attempted to recreate the inner wall of suspicion that had existed for so long, Rogue could not bring herself to believe that Gambit could be the same way. She was aware that he was not the son of Jean-Luc by blood, but it was not this that brought her comfort.

_No_, she thought, as she watched him lead his horse back over to the streamside. _He's not like that_.

Looking up suddenly, Gambit's eyes met hers, and for a brief moment they held.

_He's different_.

:xXx:

A passing cloud had just veiled the full moon when the black iron gates sprung up before them. On either side of the entrance, brick walls reaching ten feet high stretched all around the property, some hundreds of feet in circumference, every now and then topped by a large statue of bronze in the shape of a raven, wings folded. The well-kept abode of Raven Darkholme could be seen in the distance, its black pinnacles seeming to touch the star-flecked sky above. The courtyard beyond the gate appeared to be empty, the small buildings, sheds and stables hidden by the darkness. The only thing to be seen was the snow-white path of stone that began at the entrance and ended where the eye could not penetrate, at the very doorstep of the Dark Ravens manor.

Rogue dismounted expertly without waiting for assistance, and a second later Gambit followed suit. Putting a hand to the gate, she pushed, and it swung open silently as she predicted. She had begun to worry that Irene would forget to tell the guards of her late coming, although they would have found her at one time or another during their watch. But for the moment they were nowhere to be seen, most likely patrolling the entryway to the south.

"This is where I take my leave, Mademoiselle," said Gambit with a bow as Rogue turned back to him. "But it was an honor travelin' in your company."

"Likewise," she responded, knowing the courteous answer. "But surely tonight's earned you the right to go further than the front gate?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn' want t'over stay my welcome. B'sides, a thief travels by the moon, whenever possible." He looked up at where the white orb was now revealed once more. "An' he's chosen this hour t'shine brightest."

Casting off the slight disappointment at his words, Rogue extended her left hand, which he took. "Thank you, Gambit," she said earnestly as they shook. "For everythin'."

"Please, m'lady: Remy LeBeau, at your service." She returned the courteous smile, but he did not release her. Briefly he searched her eyes with his own before saying gently, "My heart would be more at ease if I knew when I could see you again."

Rogue nearly backed away in shock, but the tender hold on her wrist helped to keep her wits together. It was her turn to shake her head. "No—ah can't—"

"Why not?" Gambit asked innocently.

She stopped trying to pull free and looked up at him, striving for words in her bewilderment. "…Ah…" She gasped as something large and black exploded from behind one of the bronze statues. A real raven, dark as coal even against the night sky, dove wildly between the two of them with a shrill scream, fluttered quickly out of reach, and catching a thermal glided in the direction of the mansion.

As its dark body faded into the gloom, Rogue withdrew from Gambit, whom she had seized in her surprise. "The accursed birds are all over the place," she muttered, rubbing her arms. "Ah hate 'em." Gambit did not move or speak, and at last she sighed and said quietly, "Ah can't promise we'll meet again." Her tone was light and direct, but not even she could mistake the minor regret she secretly felt.

"Perhaps not," Gambit agreed. "But I can." With that, he took her left hand once again, and in one swift movement brought it to his lips. In the time it took her to conceive his action, he had already mounted and brought the horse around. In a flash of his crimson eyes he was gone, Raoul naught more than a shade of grey in the distance, hardly to be seen against the treeless plain.

For a while Rogue stood there, one hand on the gate, a part of her reluctant to yield that last sight up to the shadows. His last move had been a foolish, dangerous one, particularly since the chance of being seen had been all too likely from where they were situated. But somehow she felt that he had known his danger, and for that, along with everything else the night had shown her, Rogue could not help but admire him. The rules of her clan may have been trampled and forgotten in the process, but overall, a faint glow of hope had been rekindled in the depths of her spirit, one that she had long thought extinguished.

When Rogue did turn to go, she was ashamed to find that she was smiling.

:xXx:

Author's note: As an honest writer, I must give credit where it is due. The names of the countries, cities, etc., mentioned in this fic were not created entirely by my own design. They were influenced by the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, who really deserves full credit for my inspiration to write _As Long As I Live_, but I shan't bore you with those details. Anyway:

Les Galen: sounds French, doesn't it? The name was actually influenced by _Eryn Lasgalen_, the title given to the kingdom of Mirkwood after the War of the Ring by King Thranduil and Lord Celeborn of the Golden Wood. This name seemed fitting, since Mirkwood was once known for its dwelling evil under the Necromancer, yet also for its splendor because of the Elves that lived there. Hence, Gambit could be seen as the good force (the Elves), and as for the not-so-good…well, you'll discover that soon, if you haven't already a clue.

The Moronnar: the name of this area was inspired by none other than _Minas Morgul_, "The Tower of Sorcery", featured mainly in _The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers_. Since both Irene and Gambit warn Rogue of its dangers, it only seemed fitting that its name should be derived from the Valley of the Wraiths, the place where the Witch-King's connection with the Ring nearly gave Frodo away. Here, it could be interpreted the same, since the Assassins were trying to force Rogue into giving Gambit away.

Laurendor: going back to the Elf theme, the title of my alternate universe's main country is obtained from Quenya words _laurë_, meaning "gold", and _ndor_, meaning "land". Thus, the translation is literally (_The) Gold(en) Land_. This word was, so I believe, put together by myself entirely, inspired mainly by Lothlórien's other name, _Laurelindorinan_, meaning "Valley of Singing Gold".

The Silvaren River: admittedly, I'm not sure where this came from. All I can say is that it was most likely begotten from the Silverlode, a river east of Moria, and that I needed it to sound pretty since it's where Gambit first attempts to flirt with Rogue.

Ithirath: this one gave me quite a hard time. I knew that I needed its title to be somewhat romantic, since it _is_ where Gambit and Rogue's story first begins. So after much deliberation and reading through various quotes in LOTR concerning translations of places in Sindarin, Quenya, Rohirric, the tongues of Númenor, etc., I finally chose _Ithirath_. I decided to base my chief city on the influence of Gondor, since it _is_ an abode of Men, after all, and it's where Aragorn and Arwen ruled together after they were married, and it's where Éowyn and Faramir met and fell in love. Under all this comes the exact meaning of the name. I'm not as confident with the tongues of Men in translation, but _Minas Ithil_, the name of Minas Morgul before it was overtaken by Sauron's forces, means "Tower of the Rising Moon", which is where I got _Ithi_. I received the ending _ath_ from _Osgiliath_, meaning "Citadel of the Stars". In addition, the overall word _Ithirath_ was, I think, largely stimulated by _Ithilien_, the green land that Faramir rules on the borders of Mordor. While it, too, contains the root _Ithil_, I was also concentrating on _Henneth Annûn_, "Window of the Sunset", the "hideout" of Faramir's men within Ithilien, where Frodo is basically struck dumb at its beauty. Combine all this, and you've got a name based on titles containing words "star", "moon", and "sunset", all of which I thought made an accurately romantic soubriquet for the place of Remy and Rogue's first meeting.


	3. Resurgence

Author's note: My humblest apologies to all of my readers--I know it's been almost a year since I last worked on this story, and I am VERY sorry. I sincerely hope this chapter will make up for my laziness. It's a bit shorter than usual,since I'm still getting back into the swing of this story. Now LEAVE ME ALONE! ...Kidding.

:xXxXx:

The dark alley was silent, as it always was this time of night, except for the soft sounds of muffled footsteps or clicking hooves occasionally passing on the nearby street. Along the stone wall, white light continuously faded, grew and faded again as clouds crossed the moon's surface.

At the very end of the dim pathway stood a tall figure, arms crossed, frame relaxed against the cool rock at his back. The collar of his ruffled shirt was drawn down, exposing a tattoo no bigger than his thumbnail. It was an upper case T, its scarlet hue, though difficult to determine in the darkness, one of the few factors in his life that worked for rather than against him. Despite the gloom, his eyes seemed to smolder in a blood red light.

So Gambit was poised, one half of his mind submerged in memory, the other half straining for a sign of anyone's approach. His horse, restless, pawed the cobblestone ground noisily and nudged his master's hand. Gambit ignored him as a shadow slipped between the two buildings that formed the close alleyway, spotted the waiting man and horse, and made a beeline towards them. As the person approached, a sliver of moonlight caught his features and illuminated them briefly, revealing them to be exactly as Gambit remembered.

The man's face was, in spite of the solemnity of the meeting, covered by a grin that, to his closest friends, defined his personality. His hair was short and a deep red, only a few shades lighter than his bright crimson cloak. When he spoke, his voice was loud and cheerful and heavily accented.

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, mate." He stopped to shake hands vigorously with his old comrade. "What's this I hear about you gettin' caught up with—?"

"Not here, John," said Gambit briskly, glancing around them. "The usual place."

John shook his head. "Still as cautious as ever, I see. Ah, well. Maybe that's what kept you alive out there." His grin widened, and Gambit could not help but do the same.

"Good t'see you, mon ami."

:xXxXx:

The atmosphere of the bar was all smoke and voices, the wooden walls and tables catching the orange glint of the candles that were burning low. Alcohol and food alike clouded the air with their aromas, so thick that the dark figures that bustled about seemed delayed in their movements as they went by. Late in the evening, more than half the seats were filled with various sorts of men; none of the other sex were present save as waitresses, and judging by the calls in the wooden, one-story bistro, of these there were too few.

In the corner farthest from the entrance, two younger men sat facing each other in an aged booth, a dim lantern resting between them. The shadows in the bar almost concealed them from sight, which was, no less, their exact reason for such a setting. Gambit was seated with his back to the crowd, a position he disliked greatly and always tried hard to avoid; but he trusted the man across the table just as equally as he did himself, and so he was, vaguely, put more at ease.

"It's been dull without me favorite bloke around, that's for sure," John was saying, pausing to take a long draught from his flask. "But somehow this ol' town managed."

Gambit nodded slowly. Even as the two friends had caught up on the other's life, he had not so much as lifted his own drink. Now he raised it merely to watch the dark ale slosh at the brim. "Listen, John…I wanted to meet t'night for a reason—"

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, which Gambit disregarded.

"I need you t'tell me everythin' you know 'bout the Assassins' latest. What they know, what they're doin'—"

"All I really know," John interrupted, "is that they're blamin' you for the death a' the head master's grandkids—"

"I _know_ that." Gambit, having raised his voice slightly, quickly lowered it again and leaned forward. "When I was out the other night, I was attacked. Ambushed. Just across the Silvaren River in the Marshlands. I wouldn' have called in my best source o' information t'tell me somethin' I already know."

"What more's to know?" inquired John. "Seems you're caught up."

Gambit hesitated, taking the time to cast another look around the place. The booth behind him was empty, putting them both safely out of earshot. "…Someone was wit' me that night. We were separated durin' the ambush, and she overheard some a' the men talkin'." He did not wish to lie to his friend, but neither did he want to betray the secret of another; there was a feeling in the back of his mind that Rogue would disapprove of him spreading word of her power. "Apparently, there's some kind o' plan in the works. The guy she heard didn' even know much 'bout it…but he knew it was big."

Hissing through his teeth, John also stole a swift glimpse about their table. "Well, I suppose that makes this a _bit_ easier to say," he began after a moment. Gambit waited. "Truth is, their aim ain't personal anymore. It's business."

"Business?"

John tilted his head to the side and peered at his friend as if trying to tell him something, and then looked away and sat up straight. "Who did you say was with you that night?"

"A friend," he answered simply.

"Friend? Is _that_ what you call 'em nowadays?"

"You're changin' the subject."

"Just wonderin'." John waved a hand dismissively, buying time. "Well…I'll be damned if they care a wit about the Boudreaux kids anymore. Nah," he added, almost speaking to himself rather than Gambit. "That's not it. See, for the past three years, the Assassins have got it in their heads that your father's power would do better if _they_ could make better use of it." Gambit said nothing, confident where he was headed. "Ever since you left, mate, they've slowly been buildin' up their arsenal. Men, supplies, you name it." John, not looking at him, picked up his cup to drain the last bit before continuing. "But even so, there's still one thing they're worried about. One thing that can still put a stop to 'em."

"Me." Gambit's voice was calm. It was no surprise that it had come down to this, but now that he had actually heard it, the news seemed strangely surreal.

John clapped his hands together. "Blimey! The lad hasn't lost any of his senses over the years, after all!"

Once the stares of nearby diners were gone, Gambit rubbed his eyes. "If this is true, why didn' they attack while I was gone? There was no way I could've made it back here in time—"

"Who knows?" John's attention was now fixed on the lamp resting on the tabletop. His hand rested next to it, palm down, and as he ever so carefully lifted and lowered his fingertips, the small flame would steadily grow and contract to match with his movements. It was done in a manner with such furtiveness that not even Gambit would have noticed, had he not been familiar with his companion's history. "But I imagine that's what they've been keepin' so hush-hush about lately."

"I suppose. Still…" Gambit thought for a moment. "It doesn' all add up. If they're plan is t'get me out o' the way, why would one o' the men sent t'kill me not know 'bout it?"

"That's a good question. But you're on your own with that one."

Gambit stood. "That's my cue." He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew his hand and dropped a few coins on the table before turning to leave, enough for both drinks.

"Remy." Looking back, Gambit saw that John's gaze did not falter from the miniature blaze as he spoke. "Watch your back."

"Don' I always?"

"Just watch it. I'd hate to add you to the list a' boys I've seen buried because a' those blokes." He made a fist and clenched it tight. Immediately the fire went out, leaving nothing behind but a curl of smoke that rose, wavered precariously, and died on a wisp of unseen breath.


	4. Masquerade

"Do you know how the Trade first came into being? Naught more than a decade ago, notice was taken amongst various settlements concerning some new _condition_ of its residents. In common terms, people were changing.

"They could do things that men before them had only dreamed of. Some of them found that these gifts could be used for the better of mankind, while several became wary and fearful of what they could do, to both themselves and others.

"As you can imagine, it did not take long for primitive human instincts to take effect, and those whose blood did not contain these new talents became hostile. They developed a slow but steady hatred toward the ones who were different, calling them abominations. At the time, many names for these people had spread throughout the world, although the most common was simply _others_, or the Second Class.

"Rulers debated and met in council, but nothing civil was to be done if they wished to please the majority of the population, whom we now call the First Class. Many were for the proposal that those of Second Class rank should be watched constantly, should they choose to abuse their advantages in society. Thus began what would eventually lead to the founding of the Trade.

"So you see," said Raven Darkholme calmly, turning from the window, "the roots of the Trade were ignorance and fear. Fear of change. Fear of possibility." Her head of ink-black hair, which flowed down around her shoulder blades in a number of perfect waves, shook sadly in response to her words, catching and reflecting the light of a pale evening sun as she spoke.

Rogue sat motionless in her chair, her features blank, eager to hide her confusion from her clan leader. Out of respect, she had not spoken during the Lady's speech, but now her mind teemed with questions. Despite her curiosity, she held her tongue as the Lady looked away again, and instead took the chance to straighten her posture. What Irene would say, had she known her half-daughter to be slouching before the leader of the Dark Ravens, she dared not think. Brushing an auburn lock behind her ear, Rogue folded her gloved hands in her lap and waited.

Even with the dreaded summer heat, Lady Darkholme's office was cool, perhaps more so because of the darkness that enveloped the room: black curtains veiled all but one window, while black carpeting rendered the floor nearly invisible. Black fabric covered the only two chairs, eliminating the line where the hem of Rogue's uniform ended and the surface of the cushion began.

"You are in the pride of womanhood, Rogue," Lady Darkholme continued, "and so I need not lecture you." Her tone was soft and firm, one with which few would dare to argue, yet deeper than woman's wont. "Although I have never trained my subordinates to hate the First Class—indeed, I pray it shall never come to that—I hope I have taught them to at the least be wary of its members, as well as any who reside outside my clan." Her ice blue eyes met Rogue's. "For you see, Rogue, despite all its cleverness and power, the First Class has yet to obtain total control over its secondary division without aid."

"Milady?" said Rogue uncertainly. Lady Darkholme moved away from the window to stand in front of her, smiling patiently. She was garbed in a dress of deep scarlet that hung down around her ankles, and bore no ornament save a solid gold band about her throat. The low light had no effect on her beauty; on the contrary, her flawless skin seemed to illuminate with a soft golden radiance.

"It would be unwise of me to preach to you as a child, and so I shan't. I merely offer you this advice: be on your guard. I know you have been through hard times in your young life, times that have raised you to a position few can begin to understand. But even the most competent can be fooled," she said slowly, "no matter how simply."

Rogue said nothing, but met the Lady's stare unblinking. She had an uneasy foreboding in her heart, one she could not place, and so she mistook it for apprehension. It was not everyday she was summoned by Raven Darkholme herself, and having only met her Ladyship twice since relocating, both times in the company of her master, Rogue's mind and body had been tense the moment she entered.

And now, as she looked at the woman before her, the one person she had allowed herself to trust after so many years of despondency, Rogue imagined she could see a brief flash in the Lady's gaze. But then her smile grew, and her eyes were once again warm and inviting.

"Come," said Lady Darkholme with a glance at the clock, "I have spoken long enough. The ball will begin soon; you should be getting ready." She moved with grace back around the desk, where she sat down and began busying herself with a stack of yellowed parchment.

Glad of the excuse, Rogue bowed and left. It was not until she had closed the office door and started down the tower's winding staircase that she released the breath she had been holding. She would never speak ill of the Lady, but there was a feeling of great discomfort in her chest, as though the woman had known more than Rogue liked to think. She quickened her pace to two steps at a time as a thought struck her, the soles of her boots echoing in the narrow stone corridor.

_Impossible_, she assured herself. _Even if she did know, why should ah mind?_ As the leader of her clan, Raven could very well be known as her second mother; yet it was little comfort when Rogue knew that there were some things she even kept from Irene, the only one in her life whom she had ever fully confided in.

:xXxXx:

The Great Hall was soon aglow with the lights of hundreds of candles, and those who had not before seen the majesty of the Dark Raven manor looked on it with awe. Black silk hangings were draped about the many walls, and for the occasion had been drawn back from the tall windows to allow a full view of the moonlit courtyard. High overhead, the crystal chandelier was the center of attention, leaving no corner of the Hall unlit.

The orchestra's piece ended, and those dancing in the large crowd released their partners to applaud heartily. After a moment it began again, and the Hall was once more filled with melody.

On the outskirts of all this Rogue stood, watching the merriment indifferently. "That had to be the fifth man you've turned down since the ball began," Irene was saying at her side. "Don't tell me they were all so horrid that you had no choice but to refuse."

Rogue smiled and looked at her through the holes in her mask. "Ah'm afraid ah have no such excuse. Indeed, they're all handsome and appealin', but ah fear that may be their only attribute." Her half-mother raised an eyebrow, prompting her to go on. "Ah've yet to see a man approach me tonight who doesn't reflect vanity or some other fault in his eyes, however nicely he may dress or speak."

Irene laughed. "There is not one man in the world today who doesn't possess one fault or another; it is simply our job to find one with whom we can most tolerate." Rogue considered this, and continued to look out over the crowd until her eye caught something interesting: in the distance and to the right of where she was situated, a particularly still figure was standing. His features were hidden by a mask of white that concealed his eyes and nose, and he donned a costume beneath it of the same color. But it was obvious his gaze, if not simply wandering, was fixed on her own, for Rogue stood in a space no one other than Irene shared with her. Knowing she had seen him, he smiled with a mild interest.

She looked away, giving no second thought to his presence.

"Lady Irene!" said a voice suddenly behind her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" At this, Rogue took it upon herself to leave the situation. Irene rarely required her company at such events, and she was more willing to wander alone than risk a meeting with someone from her past. She chanced a furtive look towards where she had seen the man in white as she moved away, but he was gone.

Rogue took care to avoid eye contact, lest some man bold enough dared to ask for a dance. Although the law forbidding contact between an outsider and a Dark Ravens slave had been lifted for the night, she could not care less; rather, she hated it. From her view, it only increased the danger that already came from being in a large crowd, and so she had taken extra precautions in her garb for the occasion.

Her dress was a vibrant crimson, and since the sleeves left everything beneath her shoulders bare, Rogue also bore ashen gloves of silk that ran up the lengths of her arms. Her neck, back and the tips of her shoulders, however, were still exposed, but she had little to fear there. Her dark hair had been pulled up and back, while her slender white strips were left hanging down to frame her face, the top half of which was obscured by a red mask.

She would much rather have worn her usual black, but that color was intended for the slaves working this night. To be just, two balls were held each year—one in summer, one in winter—by the clan. One half of the slaves would attend the first while the other half worked, and on the second, the two groups would switch places. Rogue and Scarlet had different shifts, another reason for the former to care even less for the party.

Sighing inwardly, Rogue began another trip about the room, but then stopped as she heard someone calling her name. "Rogue—Rogue, over here, darling, I need you for a moment—" She looked around and saw Lady Darkholme gesturing her over, at whose side was a tall, elder man, dressed in a dark purple. His mask was lifted, revealing a solemn face. As she neared, Rogue discerned that he was not very old, such as the impression his snow-white hair gave at a distance; he seemed hardly aged enough to be her grandfather, and yet she detected a deep wisdom in his glance. She sensed his reputation ere it was stated and bowed briefly, removing her mask before she did so.

"Rogue, this is Sir Eric Lensherr. He is the founder and headmaster of the Acolyte clan," said the Lady warmly. "Sir Eric, this is the girl whom I was telling you about."

"Ah, Rogue," said Sir Eric in a kind, deep, almost sad voice. He inclined his head forward in respect. "You have no idea what a pleasure it is to meet you." Smiling, he glimpsed at the Lady. "Raven has told me all about you, and I was just telling her how well you would likely get along with some of the members of my clan."

Rogue tried not to let her emotions show, suddenly wishing she could replace her mask upon her face. She had had too much experience not to know where the conversation was heading.

"In fact," went on Sir Eric, "I was—and still am—hoping that perhaps my clan could be blessed with having you and the Lady over one day." His eyes stayed on Rogue's face as he spoke, as though eager to ensure that she heard every word. "It just so happens that I have a young bachelor in my care, and judging by the bit of your history on which Raven has informed me, I cannot help but think that you and he would find much in common."

"Oh?" Catching a look from Lady Darkholme, Rogue forced a smile and added, "Thank you, mah lord, but ah couldn't possibly ask so much trouble of you on mah behalf—"

"No trouble at all, no trouble at all," said Sir Eric with a small laugh. "It seems you told the truth, Raven. You really are quite the modest one," he said to Rogue with an approving nod before growing serious again. "It really is no burden on my part. If I can strengthen the bond between our two clans, and make two young people happy in the process, I'm more than willing to go through 'the trouble,' as you put it."

With that, Sir Eric turned back to the Lady, signaling that their talk was at a close, and Rogue bowed with a few words to her headmistress and the Acolyte leader and turned to go. "I should be thrilled to marry off John, at his age," Sir Eric was saying as she left, "but finding a woman fit for his personality is near impossible…"

Happily on her own once more, Rogue continued her walk about the edge of the dance floor. It was not that she _wished_ to remain a maid; secretly, she would like nothing more than to find a suitor who could love her, given her present state, and not be repulsed by what she was and what she could do. However, Rogue was long past deciding that such a case was impossible, and had steeled herself to accept the fact that if she were to ever marry, her husband would be either paid well to put up with her, or compelled into marriage for the sake of political power. Neither reason, she felt, were one fit for an issue like marriage, but it was extremely rare for a _normal_ woman to wed by her own choice these days; so what hope did Rogue have, untouchable and therefore impossible to love?

"Pardon me, m'lady, but may I have this dance?" The voice shattered Rogue's train of thought and she stopped, irritated but simultaneously grateful to be distracted from her grim contemplation, and turned around.

"Actually, ah'm quite busy, but thank you, anyway" was the line she had rehearsed for turning down any offers; but the first two words had barely crossed her lips when she felt a strong arm wrap about her waist and pull her close, palm on the small of her back, while her right hand was taken in a gentle grip and raised in the traditional dancing position. Rogue was shocked to find herself looking up at the man in white she had seen before, who, of what she could see of his face, was smiling that same soft smile.

He was already moving by the time she had realized all this, and so she had no choice but to move along with him to the music, placing her free hand on his shoulder. "Who are you?" she demanded in a low tone, determined to let him know her annoyance since her mask was hiding her eyes.

"You're a lovely dancer, m'lady," said he, ignoring her question. "A shame you refuse t'show it."

"That's none of your concern. Who d'you think you are—?"

"I've been watchin' you, Rogue," the man interrupted. "And it perplexes me t'think that such a young beauty would turn down so many rightfully deserved offers t'dance. But then," and here he lowered his voice, so that he had to lean in to be heard over the song, "I think I'm justified in sayin' that none o' them were quite right for you."

Rogue scoffed. "And _you_ are?"

"Well, yes," he said bluntly. "At least, that's the impression I received."

"_Impression?"_ she repeated, incredulous. "Ah don't know who or what you're takin' me for, but—"

"Now, now." The man seemed to disregard her anger. "Is that any way t'treat a man who's fulfilled his word?"

"Word? What word?"

And then his voice seemed to change, as though up until now he had been making an effort to conceal his accent and true tone, or as if it had just occurred to her whom it was. "I said I'd make sure we met again, chérie. Don' tell me you forgot."

Nearly stumbling in surprise, Rogue's eyes widened as she studied him, hardly daring to believe it. _"Gambit?" _she said in a whisper.

He reached up and lifted the snowy mask just enough to reveal those eyes of red, and then put it back into position.

"Gambit! Are you mad?" Rogue looked around, searching for any who might have seen. "None of the Thieves' clan were invited—do you know what'll happen if you're caught?"

"I've got an idea," he said casually. "But I'll worry about it then. Right now, I'm more concerned with the fact that you're addressin' me like a stranger when I made it clear I'd prefer you t'use my real name."

Knowing it was no use arguing, Rogue said nothing, but was glad when the music stopped. "Follow me." She broke away from him, took his arm and began pulling him after her, trying to appear casual. Rogue wound her way through the applauding crowd, head down, occasionally looking up to make sure neither Irene nor Lady Darkholme had seen them. It was not until she had led Gambit through one of the doorways into the courtyard that she released him and relaxed. Removing her mask so that it hung down around her neck, Rogue crossed her arms and turned to him. "Why are you here?"

Also taking off his mask, Gambit only broadened his smile. "T'see you, o' course."

"Why would you risk gettin' caught for somethin' like that?"

"I assure you, Rogue, I was completely aware o' my danger the moment I step foot inside your lovely home. But you forget where I come from. I'd be ashamed t'call myself a thief if I were caught in somethin' so simple—no offense meant, o' course," Gambit put in apologetically.

Rogue was unsure how to feel about this. It would have been a lie to say she was not glad to see him, and she knew. She was flattered that he had taken such a risk to see her, if that was indeed the truth, but at the same time was equally worried with what could happen if he were caught.

They were the only ones in the courtyard as far as she could see; the tall, rose-covered hedges concealed much of the Dark Raven property from where she stood, but nothing else was to be heard other than the music inside ringing out to meet them.

"Considerin' what a shame it would be for us t'waste this precious time t'gether, might I have the pleasure of m'lady's company on a walk 'round this garden?"

She could see no reason to decline his offer, especially considering it gave her an excuse to be away from the party, and so she accepted. Together they strolled between the maze-like hedges, with her always directing their path, talking mainly of themselves in turn, Gambit telling amusing anecdotes of his clansmen while Rogue discussed pieces of her past. Gambit saw that this was a sensitive subject and did not dwell on the topic, for which she was thankful.

She lost track of how long they walked side by side, but after a while she started guiding him back towards the entrance to the Great Hall. Music was still pouring from the doors when the two of them arrived within sight of the fountain that stood near the entry. Around this they strode, not yet desiring any interruptions on their company, and soon their talk died away into silence, which felt just as fulfilling as any amount of speech.

In her mind, Rogue considered mentioning Sir Eric's hint at a suitor to see Gambit's reaction, but then immediately rebuked herself.

_Why should he care?_ she wondered. _It's not like he has any real reason to._

The thought stayed with her for the remainder of their walk, and finally she pushed it aside and turned around. "It's gettin' late…ah should go." Rogue was proud of herself for hiding her regret, but she had the feeling that Gambit knew all the same. He nodded knowingly.

"Then until we meet again, mademoiselle." Drawing his hand from behind his back, he produced a bright rose. Rogue stared, and then with a sliver of a smile took it, her gloved fingertips brushing against his skin. "I don' suppose you'll be in town anytime soon?" Gambit asked expectantly.

Rogue's good mood began to dissipate, and slowly she shook her head. "Gambit, ah…"

"O' course, I'd never ask t'arrange a meetin' with you in such a manner. But I was hopin' I might know when you'd be in town, so I'd know when t'accidentally run into you." He grinned and Rogue looked away, thinking, twirling the flower in her fingers. A part of her, the same part that had been pleased to see him tonight, wished to meet with him again, but all the same she was as cautious as she had ever been.

"Ah don't know when ah'll be in town again," she answered at length. "Like ah once said, ah rarely go there."

"All the better," said Gambit, making her look at him. "I like a challenge, and this jus' means I'll have t'improvise." Rogue shook her head, determined to leave before he attempted anything else.

"Goodnight, Gambit."

"Rogue, wait—" Gambit walked around to place himself between her and the doors. "If you'll suffer it, there's somethin' I need t'know, and you're the only one who can help me."

"What is it?" she asked, puzzled at his change of tone.

"Back on that night, when you—touched—that man, an' got some o' his memories—I need t'know if there's anythin' you didn' tell me b'fore. Anythin' that might've been goin' on in the Assassins' clan—any plans they might've had—"

Rogue's heart sank. _That's it, then. Ah should have known—_

"So," she butted in, unable to conceal her anger, "if ah understand you correctly, you came here tonight in the guise of a gentleman to try an' interrogate me for information?"

There was no trace of the appealing charm from before in Gambit's face. "M'lady," he began, surprised at her outburst, "I promise you that I—"

"What?" she challenged. "That everythin' you said tonight was genuine? That you came here, as you told me, for a reason other than to question me?"

"Rogue, you've got t'understand—"

"Ah _understand_ everythin' ah need to know. Now if you'll excuse me—" Rogue made to go around him, but Gambit moved to block her. "What is this, a game to you?" she inquired heatedly. "Move!"

"No."

Pushing him aside, she felt a chill of cold shock as he suddenly seized her wrist.

"Let go!"

"Rogue," he said, his voice as calm as his hold, "I'm not lettin' you leave."

"Excuse me?"

"Not until I'm sure you know that my intentions t'night were honorable—"

But Rogue had been pushed past her limit. The combined frustrations of his lying to and touching her were almost more than she could handle, and for a brief moment all of her fury—not just at him, but also at herself—took over. Drawing herself up to her full height, she brought her free hand across his face so sharply and without warning that he released her instantly. She trod over the dropped rose and across the grass to the doors, not once looking back or faltering, leaving Gambit alone and, for the first time that he could remember, speechless.


	5. Beginning

The late morning sun was riding high, casting its rays every which way and leaving little space for shadows. The cobblestone ground of the crowded marketplace was still warming up from the cool night it had seen, but would soon only add to the growing heat of summer to assist in tormenting those who walked upon its surface. But for the moment the weather was just right, and many buyers and sellers alike were taking ample opportunity for their own gain.

The booths and stands that ran across either side of the street were stocked with every item imaginable: swords, bows, crops, alcohol, horses, riding equipment, clothes, jewelry, freshly caught fish, medicine, and generally anything one could think of.

It was at one of the less busy booths that Gambit stood, drumming his fingers on the wooden counter as he waited for the vender.

"What on earth could that old git use from here?" said John impatiently at his side. His red cloak and hair seemed even more brilliant during the day.

"You're askin' the wrong man," Gambit replied. At that moment the vender returned, carrying a small velvet pouch, and Gambit dropped three silver coins on the counter before receiving it. He motioned for his friend to follow him as he turned, taking back his horse's reins and placing the bag in a hidden pocket on the inside of his ruffled shirt. "Knowin' Nicolas, it's probably for some kind o' witchcraft ritual," he muttered, only half-serious. John chortled as he pulled his own steed after him.

"Look on the bright side, mate. Maybe you can get 'im burned at the stake."

"Not likely," said Gambit with a wry smile, "but it's an interestin' thought." Their speech was stalled temporarily as they moved aside to make room for a man shepherding a group of goats through the crowd. Once back together, John said,

"So, you were sayin'?"

"What?"

"About the _girl_," he pressed, as though this were obvious.

"Oh." Gambit felt a twinge of guilt, the same one he had been feeling since two weeks before whenever he recalled the incident. "I don' suppose there's much more t'say. An' what do you care, anyway?"

"Now, now, I'm not so heartless that I won't listen to a bloke's woes. Have you tried talkin' to her?"

Following John over to another stand, Gambit shook his head.

"I tried the next night; I managed t'find her room and waited on her balcony for her t'show, but her roommate found me firs'." He frowned. "Rogue came in just as I was about t'be thrown out the window, but I'm lucky she didn' do it herself."

John laughed as he picked up a four-inch dagger, studied it, and then dropped it back onto its velvet display pillow with a look of distaste. "You're desperate, mate. Waitin' on a girl's balcony to win back her favor?" It was his turn to shake his head, grinning.

"It's not like that," Gambit explained, also examining the weapons for sale. "She didn' deserve t'be treated like that, but I was too busy worryin' about my own matters t'consider it."

"…I'm assumin' climbin' in through her window wasn't the best approach."

"Hardly."

Bored with his browsing, John led the way over to the stables, where a white horse caught his eye. It was smaller than his current horse, an older, chestnut-colored stallion of about fifteen hands, but sturdy, and from the amount of energy it exhibited, tossing its head and whinnying, Gambit could not help but think it very nearly matched John's own personality.

"So, now that you've very likely ruined your relationship with the girl, what're you gonna do now?" John asked, running his hand over the steed's bright neck. Gambit gave him a sidelong look.

"Thanks for the comfortin' advice," he remarked sarcastically. Raoul nudged his shoulder, but Gambit ignored him. "Right now, I haven't the slightest idea. I don' think I've ever angered a woman this bad b'fore." He paused. "Come t'think of it, I can't recall angerin' a woman at all."

"So why's this one so special?" John threw in distractedly.

To this Gambit had no answer. Normally, he would never dwell over such a loss, if that were indeed the right term. He felt he owed it to her to apologize, but at the same time deemed it completely necessary to restore the friendship he had very possibly destroyed. The frustrating aspect was that the two of them had come so far from their first meeting, only for him to watch their strengthened bond crumble because of his idiocy and selfishness.

"Well, you know I'm not the best with women, but if you want my advice—" Having crouched down to inspect the horse's legs, John stood and looked over at his friend and did a double take. "—I just say turn around, tell her you're sorry and pray to God she's not as stubborn as you are."

Gambit furrowed his brow. "Why turn around?"

"Because she's comin' this way."

For a few seconds Gambit said nothing, puzzled, and then looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, several yards off stood Rogue, dressed in the same manner as the first time they had met. She appeared paler in the sunlight than she did at night, he was reminded, although it did nothing to alter her beauty. At her side was her roommate—Scarlet, she had called her—and both were standing three booths down from the stables.

Swinging Raoul around to conceal himself, Gambit swore, making John stare at him in surprise.

"I thought you'd _want_ to run into her again." Then he chuckled in delight. "If this ain't new, I don't know what is—the famous Gambit hidin' from a woman."

A snide reply made its way to the tip of Gambit's tongue, but he bit it back. "If Scarlet's with her, she might as well not be here at all," he said in a low voice.

"Scarlet?" John peered around Raoul's head. "You mean the tall one in red? Hell, mate, I wouldn't mind if she threw _me_ out a window."

Gambit looked at him, amazed. "Well, if this ain't new, I don' know what is—the famous Pyro _fallin'_ for a woman." For once in his life, John did not laugh.

"You're amusing. You really are."

"Easy, mon ami, you know I'm jokin'. But even for you, I think that one's a bit of a handful."

" 'Even for you'?" John repeated. "Just because I'm not gettin' with every woman I see doesn't mean I can't handle 'em. On the contrary, _they_ can't handle _me_."

Gambit glanced over at the two women and cocked his head, considering. "Then do me a favor. Distract Scarlet long enough for me t'get t'Rogue and get her alone for a moment."

A mischievous glint appeared in John's eyes. "That all? As good as done. Just let me finish my business here, an' I'll be right along." Leading his steed, he headed over to the stableman for haggling purposes.

Gambit busied himself by pretending to be interested in one of the other horses for sale, something Raoul disliked greatly. A minute or two passed without bringing the return of his comrade, but then he heard someone beside him and turned, only to quickly look away again. Scarlet was standing one stall over, stroking the nose of a large mare. Shielded from her gaze by his horse, Gambit rapidly searched the crowd for Rogue and finally spotted her across the street. As nonchalantly as his skills could manage, he started to move away from the stable, but Raoul had apparently taken an interest in the same mare Scarlet had and refused to move.

"Partons, garçon," Gambit ordered. "Déplacez-vous maintenant!" Raoul disregarded the demand. Irritated, Gambit gave a firm tug on the reins, but that only caused the horse to snort in annoyance and toss his head. In the corner of his eye, he saw Scarlet turn in his direction.

"Pardon me, milady—" John's voice suddenly sounded behind her. Her attention diverted, Gambit managed to get Raoul moving and slipped into the throng at his back.

In a stroke of fortune, Rogue was just stepping back into the street when he reached her. Before she had even realized who he was, Gambit had taken her arm and begun to pull her firmly alongside him.

"What d'you—_you!_" He took no notice of her attempt to wrench from his grip and kept walking. "Release me right now, or ah swear ah—"

The noise of passing buyers drowned out most of Rogue's threats. But for all her warnings, she did nothing to act on them, and suffered herself to be led down the street. Still not speaking, Gambit directed her down a narrow alley in between two buildings, Raoul in tow. Once they had rounded the corner and were hidden behind the larger of the shops, Rogue smacked his hand away from her arm just as he was letting go.

"How dare you!" she exclaimed, fury written all over her features. "Have you come back to insult me further?"

"Rogue, please," he began. "Permit me t'explain myself b'fore you—"

"_Explain?_" Rogue repeated. "There's nothin' to _explain_ as far as ah'm concerned! You lied—you manipulated me into thinkin'—you tricked me with your false words and carin' for information! An' worst of all, ah fell for it!" She shook her head. "There's nothin' left to explain." Finished, she moved to go back they way they had come, but Gambit released Raoul's bridle to catch her by the arms and hold her still.

"I already hate myself for doin' that t'you, Rogue," he said harshly. She opened her mouth, but he sped up. "A day hasn't gone by these last two weeks when I haven't thought about what I did and cursed myself for it. I owe it t'you t'try an' explain why I did what I did. You might not want t'hear it, but I recall you bein' indebted t'me for savin' your life once. For that, I only ask a moment of your time."

If looks had the power to kill, there is no doubt that he would have been struck dead there and then. But Rogue said nothing, allowing him to continue.

"You have t'understand the Assassins. You were inside that one man's mind—you _know_ just a piece o' what they're like: obsessed wit' power an' revenge." He was approaching a subject he loathed remembering, let alone discussing, but as Gambit looked into the girl's bright eyes, hurt and angry, he reminded himself why he was doing this. "All my life, I've had t'watch my back b'cause o' them. They've wanted me dead since day one. Of the few friends I've had in my years, I've seen most o' them killed b'fore my very eyes by the same people. When I returned t'this city after bein' gone for three years, I discovered that my main enemy was dead and hoped those days would be over.

"But then I ran into them again." Gambit hesitated, watching her for a reaction, but Rogue's face was unreadable. "That night in the forest wit' you was when I found out that they're still after me. Worst of all, they saw your face. Chances are, they now know more about you than you think possible.

"I asked you for information on 'em b'cause my sources tell me that they're plannin' somethin'. Somethin' bigger than they've done b'fore, possibly." His voice hardened. "I asked you for information b'cause if they're comin' after me again, there's a good chance they'll kill _you_ t'do it!"

This last sentence came out more severely than he meant, but it seemed to have an effect. Rogue blinked, all traces of her previous wrath gone, and backed out of his hold. Gambit merely stood there, arms at his sides. The only sound was Raoul's heavy breathing and the distant noise of the people in the street.

Rogue avoided his eyes. "…How do ah know?" she asked finally. "How do ah know you're tellin' the truth?"

"You don't." She looked at him. "But," he said slowly, "there's a way t'find out." Striding forward, he took her left hand and raised it so that it hovered a breath away from his face. "Touch me. Get inside my head. See that I'm tellin' the truth." He slid the glove from her fingers and met her wide stare.

"No." Rogue snatched her hand away. "You don't know—"

"No, I don'," he agreed. "But whether you decide t'believe me or not, there will always be doubts." Again, he gripped her wrist. "There's only one way t'know for sure. If you don' find out right now, I can guarantee that for what years o' your life remain, you'll be wonderin' what would have happened if you had only reached out…" He drew her hand closer. "…an' touched the truth."

Neither of them moved. They simply stood, gazes locked, each waiting on the other to act. But when it was clear that his mind was resolved, Rogue looked away, thinking furiously.

"No matter what happens," said Gambit, "know that the only person judgin' today is you. I know the risk. Now I want you t'take it."

Seemingly powered by these words, Rogue stood erect and turned to face him. Delicately, tentatively, she reached up, and after what felt like an hour, the tips of her fingers brushed his cheek.

And in that moment, time slowed to a halt. For one, brilliant instant, Gambit could hear nothing but the beating of his heart—but it was no longer his heart, he realized. It was now _their_ heart—that light contact between them had created a connection that already felt natural, even right. He felt her consciousness with his, felt her emotions, her thoughts, although he could not directly read them.

Then, in the blink of an eye, that peaceful link reversed.

Pain like he had never imagined—not only physical, but mental and emotional pain—shot throughout his mind and body, originating from where the cool skin of her fingers met that of his face.

Gambit felt rather than saw his most recent memories being brought forward. This action, involuntary, was like someone reaching down his throat to try and haul his heart out through his mouth. He suddenly felt sick, and forgoing all reason and thought, he tried to pull away from Rogue, from what she was doing, but could not.

He cried out, but whether it was an actual cry or just in his mind, he no longer had the sense to tell.

Without warning, the connection was broken, and he was back in the city, back behind the shop building with his horse looking down at him.

Every part of him ached at once—he felt exhausted, drained of energy, as though he had neither slept nor rested for a fortnight. An attempt to sit up only resulted in pain like lightning shooting through Gambit's skull, so he gave up and resolved to lying on his back, staring at the sky briefly before closing his eyes and trying not to think of what he had just gone through.

After a few minutes, he forced himself up with a groan, holding his head. Rogue was standing several feet away, arms crossed tightly over her chest, but when he moved she looked over at him. Tears were falling silently down her face, but it was clear from her expression that anger was the last thing on her mind.

Both were thinking the same thing, although neither admitted it. Either of them had had exposed what they each believed to be their darkest attributes—the danger of his company, the threat of her curse. Each found a strange comfort in that exposure, knowing that there was at least one other whom they had known beforehand, who not only would not judge them, but could also relate.

It was at this point amid pain and distress, both of which they knew too well, that the last veil between them lifted, revealing a mirror image of each other.

It was at this point that their story truly began.


	6. Providence

The carriage swayed back and forth as the trail under its wheels changed from worn, packed down earth to rough gravel. Sunlight poured in through the side window, curtains drawn back to relieve the small cabin of the summer heat trapped inside. The sound of heavy hooves moving at a trot echoed loudly, the only sign of life other than the crunch of small stones and wood creaking.

Rogue stared down at her hands, pulling distractedly at her gloved fingertips. Her mind was only partially aware of the world around her; most of it was submerged deep in memory and thought.

Doubt, wonder, and, most alarming, hope had circled the outskirts of her conscious incessantly, and as oft as she attempted to persuade herself that she hated the feeling, in truth she found it appealing, enticing. She dared not raise her hopes, and yet at the same time, she could not bring about the will to stop them.

So much had occurred in the last few weeks that she felt overwhelmed, buried under a slide of mixed emotions that were taking more time than she like to sort. Scarlet had made it clear that she would be there for her clan sister when needed, but, simultaneously sensing that Rogue needed time to herself more than anything, had retreated to leave her to contemplation.

Lurching suddenly to the left, the carriage nearly sent Rogue sliding into the door, but she caught her balance and gripped the leather seat beneath her until the heavy swaying ceased. Outside, acres of rolling green fields glided past beneath a cloudy sky.

Her throat was going dry and she could feel moisture gathering under her legs, but she might as well have been immune to discomfort, so distracted was she, just as she had been of late.

Rogue had at last admitted to herself that she was thankful for that fateful day in which Gambit had intervened to come to her aid, a full stranger, unknowingly turning the front page of what would eventually become the saga that forever bonded the two of them. But even she knew nothing of what the future held, nor would she have ever guessed. Right then, she struggled only with the predicament into which she had been thrown: namely, sifting through herself to find the truth she so earnestly and eagerly sought as to what she exactly felt for the man.

During their contact, Rogue had seen the respect and admiration he held for her, but when she tried to probe further in the direction of herself, she had found it impossible—too many other sensations had swept over her, most of them so heart-wrenching and dark that she began to wonder if she truly knew what honest pain was, after all. But as long and deep as they ran, of these Rogue caught only a glimpse, for then she came upon his regret, the disgust at himself for hurting her, a friend. At this, her mind had—and still did when she thought of it now—reeled like a drunkard's, her drink the prospect that someone, that this man, regarded her as a true _friend._

The whinnying of horses broke her thought. Rogue realized that the carriage was slowing and leaned forward, peering through the glass pane, and then frowned as she saw nothing but fields for what seemed like miles.

Surely she could not have arrived already—Lady Darkholme had explained in great detail the magnificence and grandeur of Sir Erik's dwelling, and here Rogue could not see a structure of any sort nearby. The carriage came to a complete stop, and she heard several voices around front where the driver was situated. A brief silence, and then the heavy sounds of dismounting. Rogue stood quickly and reached for the door, growing strangely uneasy, but before she could turn the handle it was wrenched open, flooding the cabin with light.

"Good day, lady."

Rogue found herself staring at a dozen men, half with drawn blade and watching her with looks that made her want to turn away in revulsion. Their dirty faces were half-concealed behind stained scarves swathed about their necks, oddly discolored against their dust-covered tunics of brown and black. Most led steeds, and for those who did not, she saw a group of horses standing idly by only a little ways off, shaking their heads as though this day were just like any other.

The foremost man, whom Rogue assumed was the leader, revealed two golden teeth as he grinned up at her, the short barrel of his pistol directed at her heart.

_Bandits._

The word was like an icy hand closing over her throat. Finding her voice, she addressed the leader. "What business have you with me?" She was glad to discover that she sounded bolder than she felt.

"You need not fear for your well-being, maid," he replied gruffly. "That is, as long as you pay tribute. Do so, and we shall be on our way." His tongue slid out between his chapped lips, moistening them, and a few of his followers shifted behind him.

"Then your efforts are in vain. Ah have no money to give."

A wave seemed to pass over the group, and she sensed their glares hardening. Her grip on the doorframe tightened.

"That's a shame," the leader went on. "My men despise having put forth their effort for nothing."

"Then be gone, all of you. Ah have nothin' that can be of interest to you." Rogue resisted the instinct to shrink back as the man stepped forward, no longer feigning politeness.

"I'm sure something can be arranged." His gaze flashed dangerously. "After all, we can't just allow anyone to pass—come, let's discuss this like civilized—"

Jerking away from his reaching hand, Rogue swung the door shut, but he caught it before it closed and shoved it inward. Before she had even considered an attempt at escape, his large fingers were squeezing her wrist and she was pulled forward out of the carriage, down onto her knees in the dried grass. Catching movement to her left, she glanced over to see the driver—one of Sir Erik's people, so she knew him not—standing amidst several more bandits. He was nearly a head shorter than she, with something of a hunch to his posture; his complexion was pale off-white, almost a sickly green, and his large round eyes did not blink as he studied the invaders. A cloak of deep green-black was wrapped around him, its hood fallen back from the head of greasy hair upon which it had previously rested.

"Do not be so hasty," said the leader, returning Rogue's attention to herself. "One might think you didn't like us." Those at his back laughed.

"Release me!" she ordered, pulling at his grasp, but he only gave another harsh tug, this time causing her to fall onto her side. The heel of his boot pressed down on her thigh, holding her to the ground. He leaned over as if to say something more, but a resounding _crack_ split the air. He looked to his right for the source, and immediately Rogue kicked at the ground, rolling away from him and regaining her feet as startled cries erupted around her. She found what she discovered next difficult to believe.

The men who had been standing guard near the head of the carriage were now lying in crumpled heaps around the driver, who, as Rogue watched, dropped into a crouching position as two others ran for him. His head snapped forward, and an immensely long, thick, wet rope shot in their direction. Like a lead whip it lashed, catching one bandit in the chest and sending him soaring backwards; and then it recoiled, just far enough to wrap itself around the other's ankle and pull. Once the second man was on his back, the rope retreated, and Rogue realized as it slithered wetly back into the driver's mouth that it was his tongue.

_He's one of us._

"Seize him, you fools!" the leader bellowed, and those still standing drew their blades; but only a few moved forward, a murmur passing though them as they waited for someone to attack. Cursing heatedly, the leader raised his pistol, but Rogue had foreseen his move. Before it was level, she had thrown herself at him and knocked them both to the dirt, the gun skittering out of reach. "_Wench!_" A fist found her stomach, rendering her breathless, and she was shoved roughly aside. Only by will alone did she manage to scramble back up, narrowly avoiding the man's grasp as he grabbed for her, but was then seized from behind as she backed into someone else. She drove her heel back, connecting with her captor's shin, and in the instant he let go she drove her elbow into his abdomen. As he backed away grunting, Rogue turned and delivered a solid kick between the legs of another man, quickly putting him down, and whirled about to see the driver leap—and leap he did, straight over the carriage—out of sight. Several bandits followed, and she had begun to do the same when the back of her cloak caught, stopping her in her tracks. "I don't believe I gave you leave," growled a voice. Rogue reached up, undid the brooch at her throat, and stumbled forward as the cloak came loose, but she had barely moved when she was struck sharply between the shoulder blades.

A hand snatched her hair and pulled her back, and without warning it wrapped around her collared throat, holding her steady as the lead bandit's face came close to hers.

"What are you?" he questioned darkly. Rogue did not reply, and in his impatience the man took her chin firmly in his fingers.

For the first time that she could recall, a grim, cold satisfaction flickered in her chest as his eyes widened in surprise, already feeling the effects of her power. As if hit by an unseen bolt of lightning, he went into a series of convulsions, mouth open in a silent cry. From then on Rogue saw no more, for a flood of memories streamed across her vision.

She sensed the man's hate, his anger, his lack of concern for anyone besides himself. She saw the men he had killed, the most recent hardly more than a fortnight ago. She saw the things he had been planning to do to her.

With a scream she tore away, head in her hands, hoping to rid herself of the bit of soul that now resided in her own, but she knew it was futile. She opened her eyes, and, seeing her victim on his side, motionless, face directed away, felt rage boil up behind her sore and aching ribs. There was a desire to take his sword and run him through with it, assuring that he would never again awake—

"What happened?"

"Is he dead?"

"She did it—she's one of _them!_"

Daylight seemed to slowly filter back into Rogue's sight, permitting her to see those still conscious staring at her. She turned, but the men had formed a circle around her, trapping her. Beyond them she saw the driver, held down by two others with his hood drawn down to his chin, flailing wildly and in vain. In one movement a couple of bandits had rushed to seize her, twisting her arms behind her back.

"Take care—do not touch her flesh!"

"Aye, but what good is she, then?"

Then a particularly loud voice rose above the others. "Burn her for her heresy! Let the witch be a warning to the rest of her kind, to he who dares raise his hand against his superiors!" There was a clamorous cry of agreement, and Rogue was dragged forward as the men set to work, pulling out tinderboxes and searching the carriage for any object of value. When none was found, swift progress was made in setting fire to the beautifully crafted structure—first unbinding the two horses that pulled it—and within minutes the whole thing was nearly engulfed in flame.

As viciously as she fought and resisted, Rogue was hopelessly overpowered, and with her heart beating wildly she was dragged to the doorway, yawning and terrible in the orange light. Her captors partly shoved, partly threw her forward, and this was done with such force that she hit the opposite side of the carriage, crying out as her head connected solidly with the wall. Even if this had not sent her to her knees in pain and bewilderment, any attempt to stand would have been useless, for right then the carriage rocked threateningly to the side. It landed, creaking, back into its original position, but then with a groan leaned again, further, further, further still, until finally it reached the point where balance was impossible, and Rogue, still disoriented, had enough wits left to cover her head as everything around her seemed to roll and tumble out of control.

The fire was so deafening that she did not hear a stray something come crashing down onto her, tearing asunder her netted sleeve but fortunately only bruising her forearm. She used the seating—which now ran vertically on her right—to pull herself up, and drew an arm across her mouth as black smoke clouded around her face. Overhead, the side door was shut tight, the light that shone through it appearing distant and out of reach. Indeed, when she tried for the silver handle, Rogue's fingertips came only inches short.

She coughed. Her surroundings were fading into black, covered in smoke. Under her boots she felt rather than heard the crunching of glass, but even her dulled sense of touch was beginning to leave her. Her hair stuck to her face and neck in the intense heat.

For no particular reason, she thought suddenly of Irene. How much she did owe her—the only one who had truly stayed by her, never asking for anything in return. This realization roused a mixture of anger and regret in Rogue, largely at herself for never properly thanking her half-mother. Now she would die without even saying farewell.

_No._

Her resolve thickened and hardened within her, and seizing what holds she could, she began to work at pulling herself up. Thrice she slipped and fell back to the bottom, at one point nearly landing on an upturned shard of glass. Her already scarcely obtained breaths were leaving her faster and faster.

Rogue collapsed against the seat, gripping its edge until she felt her fingers would break.

Was her fate truly this, to perish here at the hands of the very prejudiced scoundrels she had been raised to detest?

Far off, she fancied she heard a voice calling her: _My lady, my lady…_

She thought of Gambit, but found it difficult to picture his face.

_My lady…_

She could not breathe.

"Please, my lady…_Rogue!_"

Turning her face skyward, she perceived through bleary eyes an arm extending down through the now broken window, encased in shining armor and catching the glint of the sun. It perched in the air, an anchor of salvation.

Rogue reached, touched the palm—

The strong fingers closed around her wrist, and ere she could draw breath, she was hoisted up into the day, bringing with her an additional column of smoke. Arms held her to a shielded body as she breathed in greedily, and she barely noticed as her savior leapt from the burning carriage to the ground with a great deal of noise.

Released, Rogue fell upon her hands and knees and coughed violently into the grass. Air and moisture alike escaped her lips, but she kept on, eager to not only rid her body of the fumes but to also dispose of the feeling that still gripped her, the surety that she had been so close to death. Only when she began to gag did she relent, dropping nearly to her stomach so that the cool grass blades pricked her cheek. A breeze sifted through the netting along her arms, legs, and sides, and for a moment all was silent.

Shuffled footsteps drew near, and she was up in an instant to see the driver approaching with a sour look.

"It is all right," said a deep voice beside her. "No one is going to hurt you."

Rogue directed her gaze onto the speaker, the one who had pulled her from the belly of fire. Her eyes widened, but she kept her surprise from inducing any sound.

What she had thought to be armor was in fact the man's skin—the bright silver ran along every bit of him that she could see, even his face, where all-white eyes were watching her. He wore normal clothing over his abnormal shell, making his appearance all the more strange.

Rogue did receive some comfort in realizing that she was with others like her, but suspicion ran deep.

"Who are you?" she asked hoarsely. The man started.

"Forgive me," he said, as though ashamed of his lack of manners. A sound much like the metal clanking of sword on sword made her jump, but she then observed with interest as he appeared to shrink in height about an inch. The steel on his flesh was retreating, sliding in the direction of his torso until only darkly tanned skin remained. Rogue saw that his short hair was a deep black, and his eyes, now in color, were of a shocking blue. He was undoubtedly handsome, and the kind smile he gave made her suddenly self-conscious. "My name is Piotr Rasputin. I live under Sir Erik only a small distance from here." He gestured vaguely to his right. His voice was heavily accented, but she could not recognize the dialect.

"How did you know mah name?" She sat up, brushing the locks from her face as Piotr gave a throaty laugh.

"So I was right. I knew that we were expecting the company of a worthy lady by your name, but I never imagined we would meet under such circumstances." At a nod, Rogue noticed a great black steed standing with the two that had pulled the carriage. "I happened to be out on my afternoon ride when I noticed the bandits who stopped you—I apologize for you having to go through such an ordeal. We have dealt with their kind in this area before, but…" He shook his head. "It seems only to get worse with time."

Rogue examined him wordlessly, mind working, momentarily unsure of what to think of him. His good nature and modesty were as obvious as day, but the degree to which this stranger's apologies sounded sincere was new to her.

"Hold no blame on yourself," she replied. "Ah owe you mah life, an' for that ah could not bear to see any grievance on your part."

"You are too kind." Piotr's smile grew, but in his expression she caught a glimpse of what she thought was sadness—one that was as much a part of his person as her loneliness was to her. Perhaps she had, oblivious, known of this from the start, which would have explained her lack of hostility and distrust towards him. Whatever the cause, she believed she heard a bit of her own voice when he spoke; in that ability to relate, Rogue had stumbled upon the beginning of their inevitable connection.

:xXxXx:

Less than a quarter of an hour later, Rogue was led up the steps and through the front door of Sir Erik's dwelling, a magnificent mansion that to the eye seemed more in the likeness of an aged castle. Its many towers could be seen from anywhere on the grounds, and she soon learned that only one guard at a time stood sentry, day and night. The interior was dark, not as warm or inviting as her own home, but torch and candlelight provided visibility where the sun did not.

In the entrance hall Sir Erik himself greeted her, and for the first time she witnessed something close to his wrath. The old man was incensed at the news of her attack, and against her protests arranged for a team of his men to pursue the villains who had dared to lay a finger on his guest. She was under his care now, he ensured her more calmly, and as long as she was, he would treat her no differently—although better if he could help it—than his own people.

"But enough of that," he insisted. "Colossus shall show you to the kitchen for refreshment, as I wish to impose upon your patience once more before you retreat for the day. You will permit me?"

Rogue, of course, did so, and discovered thereafter that "Colossus" was merely Piotr's alias, and so with more ease than she expected allowed him to lead her from the hall. In the kitchen—which turned out to be a great square room divided in half by a recently erected partition, cluttered with pots and pans and stained tables—Piotr apologized again for the mess, saying regretfully that the Acolyte clan had not seen a woman's touch in many a year. She reassured him that it was all right and, although not thirsty, accepted his offer of tea, desiring an excuse to delay her talk with Sir Erik. With a steaming cup in hand Rogue took a place at the nearest table, Piotr sitting across from her.

Before any attempt at a conversation had begun, the kitchen's heavy door hit and bounded off the stone wall. When she looked, Rogue saw no one, but upon turning back was startled to catch the silhouette of a man darting about through the window in the partition, moving at an incredible speed as he searched through the cabinets without giving the two of them a second thought.

"Aye, Pietro," Piotr called. "Show some respect to our guest."

Instantly, the blur appeared next to them, and Rogue could deduce that he seemed only slightly older than her. He had silver-white hair and wore an impatient smirk, which was hidden as he raised his flask in a sort of salute. His tunic very nearly matched his hair, save that it was touched with a hint of blue.

"Delighted," said he, sounding anything but. Rogue returned the expression, and Pietro—not unhappily—gave a careless nod to Piotr before whisking back through the door and out of sight.

"Do not take his indifference personally," said Piotr. "As the only son of Sir Erik, he is known to take his position for granted. That, added to his gift, makes him a difficult man to hold in one place."

"Son?" Rogue repeated, furrowing her brow. "Is his mother a…ah mean, is she like in manner to us?" Here, Piotr's tone changed, and he was hesitant in responding.

"…It is not known," he replied. Then quickly he added, "Sir Erik prefers not to speak of it. All I know is that she died many years ago. Since then, Pietro has been raised by his father."

Rogue looked away and sipped her drink distractedly. At his words, her mind had abruptly turned to Scarlet—her history was similar, or at least what Rogue knew of it. She recalled that Scarlet's mother had passed away when she was younger, leaving her an orphan, but it was common knowledge that the woman had not been a slave. Consequently, it was believed that her father had either died as well or left them both, and for whichever reason, Scarlet carried an insatiable hatred in her bosom to this day.

"Are you troubled?" Piotr inquired with concern. Rogue broke from her reverie.

"No, ah…ah know someone with a past not too unlike this Pietro's."

He made a noise of empathy, and then after a glance at the clock stood. "I'm afraid I have to take my leave of you, my lady, but I shall show you to my master's office." Together they went back through the main hall, meeting no one on the way, and in no time at all arrived before a set of thick wooden doors. There, he departed, and for the first time since arriving Rogue was left alone. She took her time in setting her hand upon the doorknob, and even then she paused.

When she finally pushed it open, the voices inside swiftly came out to greet her. A high ceiling allowed for a number of portraits upon the walls, and small tables covered with books and maps stood throughout the room. She saw Sir Erik standing behind his desk, addressing a man in red who was seated with his back to her, but at her entering he stopped and gestured.

"Come in, Rogue. I was just finishing here."

The man sitting down turned about, and the mischievous grin that played across his mouth faded ever so slightly as he looked at her. Rogue also stared, sure that she had seen him before but unable to say where that might have been. At her host's bidding she took the vacant seat beside the man in red, and for a minute sat in silence as the two finished their conversation.

"Take the usual routine," Sir Erik was saying, "with the exception of one for questioning."

"M'lord. But I can't say I see anythin' promisin'—"

"_Do_ it, Pyro. That's an order." The clan lord looked over as Rogue's hand flew to her head, but she signaled that she was all right. In truth, the man's name had been like a fierce blow to her forehead, realization and memories rushing back to her as they surfaced. As much as she opposed, images—pieces of pictures—flickered before her sight, too quick to understand, but she felt the underlying emotions that stood with each one. The last of these images was dark, streaked with flecks of white and red—the smell of food, drink and smoke, wood burning. A feeling of horror gripped her chest, so sudden that an involuntary gasp escaped her and she seized the arms of her chair as she reeled forward.

Her knees hit the cold floor as someone lowered her slowly down. "Easy now…don't fret, I've gotcha—" Rogue recognized John—Pyro's—voice and allowed him to keep a hand on her shoulder until she was steady; but as she felt her familiarity with him disperse, she shrugged him off, and taking hold of the chair heaved herself up.

It took longer than she desired to assure Sir Erik that she was fine. In the end, she lied and proposed that she was still disoriented from inhaling so much smoke during her incident, and the lord finally—although doubtfully—let the subject be. He dismissed Pyro, and once the two of them were alone, Sir Erik came to stand beside her.

"It grieves me that we should receive you on such unhappy pretenses," he said grimly, "especially when I had hoped for this to be a happy occasion. Nonetheless—" He moved behind her with a swish of his elegant purple cloak, appearing all the more of noble blood as he passed in front of the window, his white hair illuminated by the golden rays of the sun. "—I am grateful for the one seemingly fated coincidence today." Now behind his desk, he stopped with his hands at his back. "Tell me, Rogue, did Raven say she had any notion as to the suitor I had in mind?"

"No, mah lord." Rogue's mood darkened. She had known that this day, this moment, would come, but she still dreaded the repetition of her past pain, and wondered how significant an impact it would have on the new life she had found with the Dark Ravens.

"I suspected not." Sir Erik nodded. "But perhaps it is best to meet the face to judge for yourself beforehand." She only watched him, unsure what he meant. "Rogue, the man I chose to court you is one of my best. I do not know of one soul who thinks ill of him."

With a silent scoff, Rogue decided that statement alone ruled out the man's son. Sir Erik met her waiting stare.

"The man I'm hoping you'll consider for your husband is none other than the very one who rescued you today." She stiffened. "Yes, Colossus," he confirmed. "Or Piotr, as I am sure he has told you."

Rogue could not find the will to move her tongue. "…You mean a…slave? Like me?"

"Of course." Sir Erik appeared surprised. "There is no sense in confiding yourself to one who cannot understand you." As much as she agreed to this, she was baffled by the circumstances. Every suitor before this time had been of the First Class; although Sir Erik's train of thought was not new to her, it was different. "I for one cannot see the sense in blending the two classes," he went on, his voice softer. "Whatever vows or promises they make, those of the First Class will always look on others as _below _them." A hint of irritation, almost hate, slipped in amongst his words, and Rogue was reminded strongly of Lady Darkholme. As he seemed to simmer, she turned her attention back to herself.

She had been shocked to feel a sense of relief in hearing that Piotr was her suitor. She had, briefly, thought that Pyro would be the one, and her absorbed memories—Gambit's memories—had churned disapprovingly at the notion. Of course, she still possessed the unease she had always borne against arranged marriages, however traditional they were, but it made her happier to think that she had seen worse men asking for her hand. Not even this positive outlook could raise her dampened spirits, however, and she became utterly ashamed of herself as it crossed her mind that, were Gambit her proposed suitor, she would have welcomed her current situation with much more tolerance.

Before she could scold herself anymore for the thought, Sir Erik looked at her, and his face was once again benevolent.

"But it seems I chose wisely," he said with a half-smile, "for how often can a woman say she learned to love a man who saved her life?"


	7. Deviation

Rogue blinked as she stepped from the dark hall into a brightly lit room, the stone beneath her running onto marble. Her silver dress appeared to explode with color, hidden hues wavering in the rays of an enormous chandelier perched overhead, its reflection gazing back up at it from the floor. Stone walls had been accentuated with yellow drapes and tapestries fringed with gold.

The ballroom was perhaps half the size of the Dark Raven clan's, but its cheery difference from the rest of the household made it seem much more convivial.

On Rogue's left arm Sir Erik led her along, proudly dressed for the occasion, relaying to her how the decorations had been set up solely for the privilege of her visit. Behind them, several men of the house followed, including Piotr and Pyro. When Sir Erik came to a stop, she imitated him, and then watched the lord wave a hand at the orchestra in the corner. On cue, it struck up the beginning notes of a slow, formal tune, and Rogue curtsied in return to Sir Erik's bow before following him out onto the floor.

He was a graceful dancer despite his age, but it came as no surprise. Although a smile covered Rogue's face as they moved, a part of her desired to retreat from the attention back to her quarters. She was not used to being the center of everyone's focus thus, and disliked it greatly; however, her stay with the Acolytes had only just begun, and she knew it an ill decision to gain a negative perspective on her situation so early.

Sir Erik released one hand and they parted, but with precise timing someone else moved into step with Rogue to take the man's place. In the next second she was looking into the smiling face of Pyro as he fixed one arm above her hip and caught her free hand, not once hindering the dance.

"Good morrow, m'lady."

"Good morrow," she said politely. The music's speed increased just a bit, and Pyro quickened his pace to keep up, making her do the same.

"I must say," he said after a moment, in a voice too low for any other to detect, "I was quite surprised at m'lord's choice in you as a wife for our Piotr."

Rogue's expression faltered. "How so?"

"Oh, take no offense in my meanin'," Pyro continued hastily. "But any other man would agree it a questionable sight to find one's possessions in the store of his neighbor."

"Ah should think so," she agreed. "But ah fail to see how stolen livestock relates to your impression of mah visit."

Pyro twirled her about once, coming up against her back so that his mouth was nearer to her ear. "Your words, m'lady. As such, I'll tell you that I was caught off guard at findin' the lord Gambit's hen in another's coop."

Shocked, Rogue felt her mouth drop open. Before she could speak, she was being turned around once more and pulled back against Pyro's chest. He was indeed a gifted dancer, so much so that he managed to mask any fits of resistance from her by falling in sync with her movements. He could not, however, stop her tongue.

"Ah know not what you've heard or been told," she whispered angrily, glancing once towards the onlookers, "but ah can assure you that ah'm held by neither bond nor promise to Gambit." To her irritation, his grin only widened, and something in her memory stirred. He was up to something, it told her.

"Your complexion changes just as swiftly as your mood," he observed coolly. Rogue's flush deepened.

"Have you any further examinations to conduct, or may ah take mah leave?" She tried to pull from him, but Pyro kept his hold on her and quickly blocked her path.

"Now, now, bear with me a bit longer, Rogue." He ignored her glare as she reluctantly went along with him. "I only desire to request a favor a' your ladyship—"

"A favor?" Rogue repeated, appalled. "Is that how you appeal to someone from whom you need help? By attemptin' to test their patience an' speakin' rudely to them?"

"Rudely?" Pyro paused as they parted and came together again. "Shame on me if I've appeared anythin' a' the sort. I've only spoken what I believed to be true."

"Then you were mistaken," she retorted swiftly.

"So I was. But nevertheless, I require your assistance in a matter that _does_ concern yourself somewhat, m'lady."

"Oh?" A scoff made its way among her words. "An' just how so?"

"Well," said Pyro, breaking off as though in deliberation, "that's up to you. But I can promise that unless you help me, there's a good chance that neither of us will be seein' much a' Gambit in a few weeks."

Rogue felt her heart give a painful throb inside her, replaced instantly by fury. This showed on her face, for Pyro added, "Nay, think it none a' my doin'. I can act no more to stop it than you. If you do as I say, however, we can give him a fightin' chance." At a suspicious look, he sighed and avoided her eyes for a moment. "Surely you know that Gambit has…enemies?"

"Ah do."

"Then that's _all_ you need to know," he said firmly. When she began to speak, he only went over her. "It won't help him to go riskin' your own life as well. I've said all I can, an' shan't say anythin' more. What I'm about to tell you, you must _never_ speak of again unless it's to him, understood?"

At first, Rogue had suspected foul play, even a joke of some sort. But the air about Pyro was so sincere and out of character for him that she could not help but believe him. She nodded. Without warning she was pushed backwards, and her grip on his sleeves tightened as she stopped a foot above the floor, held by one of his hands alone.

"_Swear_ it," he pressed.

She did so. The once cheerful, uplifting music that surrounded them now sounded dead, its notes empty. Pyro brought her back up, and in barely more than a whisper passed on his message. Only when she had repeated it back to him thrice did he seem satisfied. "But," she questioned, "can you not just give him this information yourself? Ah've no idea when we—"

"Afraid not," he interrupted. "I'm set to leave town in the mornin', an' won't return for a while. I'm thinkin' you're the only one who knows Gambit whom we can both trust."

They were both silent as they danced, and the weight of the situation became heavier with each step. Rogue reflected on what she had been told, feeling that something about the whole affair was odd.

"What do you want, John?" she inquired suddenly, in a manner that sounded quite unlike her. At the use of his name, she could see the surprise and puzzlement in his eyes.

"Beg your pardon?"

She had to choose her words cautiously. "From what ah've…_heard_ of you, you aren't exactly accustomed to givin' information like this away." Before she had even finished, his grin was showing once more.

"Oh, I see. So Remy's told you I'm a man with a price, is that it?" She said nothing, and he shrugged. "To be honest, I'd be worried if he hadn't. But this time…" He trailed off in thought, and then shook his head. "It would be unreasonable a' me, for what I seek is for neither a' you to give."

"What?" asked Rogue, curious, but Pyro only upheld his smile.

"Somethin' of a rose's hue, m'lady, but with the thorns to match."

The music ceased. Ere Rogue could attempt to decipher what he had said, he was retreating and holding her hand towards the approaching Piotr, who took it and bowed before her. She smiled as her suitor invited her to another dance and accepted it, but thoughts of both Pyro and Gambit haunted her mind all the same.

:xXxXx:

The beast was enormous, its breathing deep and even. One of its large black eyes was fixated on Rogue, waiting for her to move, and when she did not it tossed its head impatiently. She returned the stare, uneasy, her limbs tense as she surveyed the animal.

"Come, you have nothing to fear," Piotr reassured her. He stepped up beside her, but his voice was far off and did nothing to relieve her mind. Hesitantly, Rogue grasped his hand and allowed him to help her up into the saddle.

The horse's ears flicked back and forth at the added weight, and Rogue had to force herself to concentrate on Piotr's instructions. He had already demonstrated the correct manner in which to hold the reins, but, sensing her discomfort, he had chosen to go through it again.

In what felt like no time at all, he left her side to climb his own mount. She sat just as she had been instructed, remembering that horses could sense their rider's emotions and trying her best to swallow her anxiety. She had ridden before, but that was always with someone before or behind her; riding on her own was a whole other matter.

Piotr stayed close beside her as the horses took off at a steady walk, taking them from the dim stable into the sunlight. Before them, rolling fields and hills stretched far and wide, all property of the Acolyte clan. Together, the steeds—Piotr's strong black stallion and a small speckled mare of white and brown for Rogue—traipsed across the grass and let out sounds of contentment.

Several days had elapsed since her arrival, and not one had gone by when she and Piotr did not spend time together. Just when she thought she had seen the most of what Sir Erik's clan had to offer, Piotr would always surprise her with something more. Horse riding, of course, was not one of her favorite activities, but she still appreciated the effort and was determined to enjoy the opportunity. This day was her last with her hosts, after all, and Rogue had come to admire Piotr in a way that made her want to see him happy, to evade hurting him; there was a goodness about him that she liked and did not wish to offend.

"Ah should thank you," she said in an unexpectedly bold voice, "for havin' so much patience with me."

"It is no trouble," he replied merrily. "Patience is a virtue that I learned long ago, when I taught my sister to ride."

"Your sister?" Rogue looked over.

"Yes." He directed his horse to the right, and she tentatively followed. "We grew up together on our family's farm. At least…" A pause followed as Piotr planned on what to say. "At least, I did. I was taken into the Trade a day after reaching manhood."

"That's horrible," she murmured. Even if she had never known the meaning of true family, the thought of him suffering so touched her.

"It was," he concurred. "But I did it for the good of my family, and that was enough."

"Did you—?" Rogue stopped.

"Yes?"

Biting her lip, she caught his gaze and then quickly looked away, afraid that she was intruding. "Please, go on," he encouraged.

"Did you…did you ever see them again? Your family?"

His smile wavered and faded, and Rogue regretted having spoken. "I received news of my sister's death shortly after I left. She had fallen victim to a plague that haunted our village for months. As for my parents, I have not heard of them."

"Ah'm sorry." The light breeze and sun on her face seemed to have lost their effects. The fall of hooves was uncommonly loud.

"It is quite alright," said Piotr after a moment. "It does the heart well to talk of such things."

"Perhaps, but only with one whom you were particularly close, ah should think." At his stillness, she looked and found him watching her.

"I do not consider you a stranger, Rogue," he told her. "In many ways, you remind me of Illyana. My sister," he explained. "I do believe that, had she lived, I would have wanted her to turn out as you have." Shocked, Rogue was speechless at his comment. "Your smiles, especially, are similar." She felt him observing her, but kept her focus on the back of her horse's head. "You should smile more often, my lady."

Shy, she said nothing. "Ah…oh!"

Without warning, her horse had reared up onto her back legs, a piercing whinny cutting through the air. Rogue clutched the reins as though her very life depended on whether she fell, but, sitting sidesaddle, it was a difficult thing to do. The mare came back down, stamped, and then flung her head back once more, now with so much force that Rogue lost her grip almost immediately, unable to hold herself up. Her lower back struck the leather saddle sharply as she fell, tilting her head towards the ground, but an instant later she landed in Piotr's outstretched arms, his concerned voice close.

"Are you all right?"

Rogue only nodded, her breath gone, and she forced her unsteady legs to support her as he set her down easily. Her steed was gone, taken off in the direction of the stable, and she saw why. Only a few feet before them, a fat black snake was coiled in the grass. Its diamond-shaped head was turned towards Rogue, a purple tongue darting out before it every few seconds.

Piotr stepped past her to study the serpent, withdrawing a knife as he neared. A deep hiss emitted forth, but he simply moved around to approach it from behind. Once close enough, his hand shot down and seized the thing's large head, disregarding how it thrashed and flailed in his grip, and raised it. Rogue studied the snake's large fangs with awe; the sight of them prompted sympathy in her for the horse's fear. And then, to her amazement, Piotr turned and dropped the angry creature into the closest shrub.

"You're not goin' to kill it?"

He met her eyes as he came to her side. "No. You cannot blame the snake for being as he is." Taking her hands between his, he fell silent, and once again Rogue received the impression of him as just and pure, more so than she could ever hope to be. Suddenly, she realized that she was envious of this man—he had gone through just as much pain and persecution as she, perhaps more, and yet his demeanor could not be gentler. She, on the other hand, had known no reaction other than to shut out the world, to hate many for the crime of a few.

"Just the same," Piotr continued softly, "you cannot always blame humans for being as they are."

Rogue did not respond.

:xXxXx:

That night Rogue met Piotr in the lighted courtyard, at the center of Sir Erik's estate. It was late, after nine o' clock, and over their heads a cloudy sky rested peacefully. Decorations were sparse in the small yard, but white benches, wrapped in ivy, broke the carpet of green grass that stretched from wall to wall.

As was tradition, Piotr would not truly propose to her until a fortnight had passed; however, any time until then could be used to try and woo her, and it was evident that he wished for a final say this night.

All the while that he talked, Rogue sifted through herself, her thoughts and feelings and instincts, in hopes of finding an answer. As kind, caring, polite, and attractive as she found him, she had for days felt that there was one thing missing in this man, although for the life of her she could not figure what. Then again, she knew, no marriage was perfect, and it was certainly not her place to be skeptical.

"Rogue," said Piotr diffidently, with the manner of one drawing to a close, "these past days with you have been the most enlightening that I can remember, and more than I could ever ask for." He stood in front of her, holding her hands and appearing as shy as she felt, but he went on. "I have found you to be everything that a man could ever want in a wife, and I…" His fingers tightened gently around hers. "I would be very honored and call myself blessed if you consented to be _my_ wife."

Rogue's heart was moved by sadness and pity at this. Multiple times had she turned away suitors, and yet the thought of rejecting this one was unbearable. She would not give her final answer until later, but the last thing she wanted was to have Piotr lingering on a false hope.

"Piotr, ah…" She smiled nervously. "Ah don't know what to say…" Inhaling deeply, Rogue prepared for what came next. "Likewise, you're a man any woman would love to call her own, but…ah can't be that woman." She did not look up, afraid to see the hurt in his eyes, but told her reasoning as evenly as could be managed. "You're a noble man, an' for that reason alone ah'm not fit for you—a lineage such as yours deserves to be remembered, an' you need a wife who can give you that." She had come to the most painful—even embarrassing, had she been any less modest—segment. "…Ah'm…barren. Ah'm barren," she repeated, louder, her voice flat, "due to mah gift—mah _curse_—that forbids contact between mahself an' another. If ah were to touch your skin, ah would make you swoon, perhaps even kill you."

She willed herself to meet his gaze. "Ah couldn't possibly take advantage of your kindness an' force such a life on you; hence, ah cannot marry you."

Piotr's countenance was difficult to read. He let go of her hands and she turned aside, imagining that his compassion would turn to scorn and derision.

_Just like all the others…_ She fancied that she perceived a clinking sound, but still Rogue could not find the resolve to lift her eyes. Something cool touched her cheek, and, looking up, she was horrified to discover that it was his _hand_.

It was plated in its silver armor, but the sight of it filled her with fear. Involuntarily she struck his arm away and retreated.

"Are you _mad_?" she demanded shrilly. "What if—ah could have—you shouldn't—!" At a loss for words, she could still feel where he had brushed her accursed skin. Was it _possible?_

"Do not insult me," Piotr began, "by mistaking me for one of the simpletons who shunned you only for being who you are." He took a step forward, making her wince as though in pain, but she stayed. "If you truly respect me as you say, then think me wise enough to take what chance I will." Even as he finished speaking, the last of his natural shield appeared. His eyes, now white and without their centers, watched for a response that did not come.

Again, Piotr raised his hand, and again, Rogue's breath caught as he delicately took her chin. The two studied each other wordlessly, her heart beating against her chest. She had never been in such a situation, and lack of experience made her nervous, more so than she had been on a rearing horse. In what felt like an instant, they moved forward and shared a hesitant kiss.

For as long as she could remember, Rogue had neither kissed nor been kissed, but even so, something about it was not quite right. There was nothing in it, she felt; none of the passion or intimacy that she had envisioned. However long she and Piotr stayed like that, a part of her knew it would feel no different, be it an hour or a day from then. The kiss was hollow. Like how she viewed their relationship, it was friendly, shy, and unsure, but nothing more to her.

"Don't—" She pulled back, blushing and trying to keep her speech legible. "Ah can't…this—this is wrong, all wrong—it can't be…"

"Rogue," he said, so that her stuttering ceased, "forgive me, I…I know this must be strange to you—"

She backed away. "Ah…ah need to go…to think, ah…"

"Of course."

Rogue cast one look at him before hurrying off. He had perceived her shock at the whole affair, at finding that there might in fact be a way _around_ her curse—but all the same he had missed her lack of sentiment for their contact.

Shoving open the hall doors, she moved inside, into the torch lit corridors of the mansion. She was not even sure where she was headed; her body walked of its own accord, her mind too baffled to work correctly.

What was the matter with her? There was a man who wished to be her husband, who was well off in both wealth and personality, who could do what no other could—and she had fled from him because she had not _felt_ right?

Rogue realized that she had crossed onto another hall that took her back towards the courtyard entrance, but she was too flustered and distracted to care. _What on earth could you be thinking?_ she demanded of herself. _You've no excuse…what reason could you possibly have…_

Turning left round a corner, she was met with the one thing that could complicate her night even further.

"Gambit!" She stopped short to keep from colliding with him. He seemed just as surprised, his scarlet eyes rapidly searching her face as he, too, stepped back. Too absorbed in her own matters, Rogue failed to notice the change that had come over him—the mischievous smile that usually played across his mouth at the sight of her was nowhere to be seen. The color of his eyes was almost dull, of a lesser radiance than was common. Overall, he would have come off as distracted, even distant, had she only noticed. But Rogue had been made deaf by her fretful thoughts, preventing her from hearing his footsteps even in the resounding stone halls, and added to her amazement at finding him so abruptly, it was no wonder that his alteration in manner did not immediately catch her attention.

"M'lady," said Gambit emotionlessly, with a slight incline of his head.

"Ah thought ah might meet you here, but ah didn't expect—" Her mood had lifted significantly upon seeing him and she now spoke almost happily, her predicament temporarily shoved aside. She went so far as to take his arm in her hand, an anchor amidst the agitated waters of her emotions, and this was so unlike her that she herself was astonished at the change that Gambit brought about in her.

His lips upturned just barely, but the expression came off as forced. "A blessed chance," he agreed, "but I'm afraid pressin' business calls me from your side." Here, he pulled from her grip in such a way that it was clear he was not going to wait for her to act. As he hurried past her, Rogue only stared, a little hurt at his indifference. Then, she remembered why he was probably there in the first place and could have laughed at her own stupidity, had she been of such a mind.

"Gambit, wait—Pyro—" She caught up with him easily, taking her time so as not to seem too hasty, and he ceased his course to turn to her. "—He bid me deliver a message to you," she finished, "that he deemed of the utmost importance." Gambit, if possible, grew more serious still.

"What was it?"

In her mind, she went over the words twice before voicing them. " 'Steel yourself for the night of the new moon'," she recited. " 'An' keep no man's company save those you love'."

He was silent, taking in the warning. "Always the jester," he said, smirking. Then, to Rogue: "I thank you for your troubles. Now if you'll pardon me—"

"Stay," she ordered, so sudden and fierce that he obeyed. Rogue had finally detected something erroneous about his behavior, and it had begun to both irritate and worry her. "Why do you behave so? You speak as though ah were naught more to you than an errand boy. What troubles you so much that you won't even look at me?"

Of course, after this Gambit had no choice but to look at her, and right away she wished he had not. There was an unfamiliar glint in his stare, one that she disliked instantly. The soft, clear tone that followed was like a strike.

"What is man t'impose upon such a virtuous maiden, let alone one o' my history?" There was a particular stiffness to his speech. "I'm not fit for such a task; therefore avoid me for fear of stain. Go. Get thee to a nunnery¹."

Once more, he passed her without another glance, but Rogue could not follow him if she wanted to. She was startled, insulted, and angry all at once, fueled by the understanding that hit her.

_He knows…he saw me with Piotr…_

She spun around, unsure whether guilt or pride would loose her tongue, but it mattered not. The passage behind her was empty; Gambit was gone.

:xXxXx:

¹: Line from William Shakespeare's _Hamlet_, Act 3 Scene 1.


	8. Recognition

The sound of metal on metal echoed between the stone walls, occasionally accompanied by grunts and the scratching of moving feet on dirt. Everything in the courtyard was still aside from the two figures that moved nimbly about its center, sunlight gleaming cold on their swords as they fought.

Gambit, the taller and swifter of the two, was as always faring better. His parries were punctual, his thrusts rapid and strong, never missing a chance or leaving one open to his opponent.

But even as his body worked, trained to perform almost automatically, his mind was somewhere else completely. It was the morning after the new moon, the night against which he had been forewarned, and yet nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. No attack, no infiltration, no word from friend or foe—this worried him more than anything that could have actually happened. And yet Gambit could not delude himself with the idea that this was his primary concern. There was no sense in denying that he was thinking of her, as he had often been doing lately, but every time he pictured her it was in the arms of another. This only made the effort to forget even more difficult, as it left a slight sting in its wake.

Locking blades in the middle, the two swordsmen drew back and began to walk in an arc about each other. Their eyes watched for a hint of movement.

Had Rogue been lying? Gambit had pondered the question more than once, and each time came away knowing it was not possible. There had been a deep sadness in her that he had felt and recognized, and it had been too familiar to be feigned. Perhaps, he had finally decided, there was something about Colossus that protected him from her deadly touch.

Again, Gambit saw the kiss Rogue and Colossus had shared, and felt the same uprising of shock and—dare he say it—anger flow through him.

With a defiant cry he launched forward, swinging his sword horizontally only to be deflected. He attacked the other man hurriedly, like the attempt would make him forget what he knew.

Even if Rogue _had_ been false with him, she did not deserve the treatment Gambit had given her. He recalled his cold words—_"Go, get thee to a nunnery"­_—and cursed his pride heatedly. In all truth, he had planned to be gentler than that, but the same inexplicable burst of envy had taken control of his tongue.

More than ever, he wished he could return to that night and deliver his true meaning, but he doubted if she would ever willingly look on his face again. Before meeting her in the hallway, he decided what he would say to her—that she should stay away from him in the future, lest he poison her mind as well with thoughts of what could have been between them—but the instant he laid eyes on her, he could think of nothing but what he had seen.

Gambit was a fool, and knew it, for mistaking his own attraction to her beauty for something greater. Whenever possibility had entered his thoughts, he had disregarded it as a habit of old. However, no amount of such convincing could shake the regret he continued to feel.

It was a matter of having missed his opportunity; Gambit had opened her to the world only for someone else to come in and take up the chance. In a way, he saw this as a contribution, his good deed, to his cause of repenting for his life of sin. But as with almost anyone, he had become attached to his subject matter and hated to see it go.

"You're distracted."

Reluctantly, Gambit met Jean-Luc's eyes. His father was the one person he knew of who could always decipher what he was thinking. As often as Gambit had attempted since childhood, there was no concealing the truth from the thief leader.

"I've jus' been busy lately." Gambit gave his sword a twirl, and in a lighter tone added, "Or are you lookin' for an excuse t'avoid bein' defeated?" Grinning, Jean-Luc leapt forward, faked a right, a left, and then made for Gambit's open right side.

Even as Gambit blocked it, he felt his memory slipping over to Rogue once more. He _needed_ to be concentrating on the Assassins—or at the very least, the swordfight at hand. But, like a wound one cannot help but finger, he continually returned to picturing her, wondering how things could have been different—

Suddenly Jean-Luc slid behind him, and before Gambit could untangle himself from his thoughts, he received a rough kick that sent him to the ground. Irritated, he forced himself onto his knees and ignored the offered hand.

"I've gotta admit," Jean-Luc mused, "this is the firs' time I've been able t'do that in a long while. You sure you're well?"

"Yeah." Gambit sheathed his sword. "It's nothin'."

Growing sterner, his father said, "If this were a real battle, you'd likely be dead. An' I know for a fact that you take these practice rounds jus' as serious as the real thing. Whatever's botherin' you, fix it or get over it." In reply, he received a solemn smirk.

"Thanks."

Gambit turned and made for the archway that ran around and through the old mansion. As usual, the interior was dark and silent for the most part, a striking contrast to outside, but much more enjoyable when the chance of running into Nicolas was reduced. The old man had not been seen for a while, which was not entirely a surprise. He had a habit of occasionally disappearing for hours at a time, sometimes buried in his work in the dungeons or out in the town. Whatever the reason, Gambit did not particularly care. He enjoyed the thought of Nicolas being trapped under his horse in the wild, or fallen in his study without the strength to get up—as long as he was out of sight, Gambit was content in his imagination.

He did not enjoy admitting it, but Jean-Luc was right. If the Assassins had attacked the night before, what was to say he would not have been clouded with petty reminiscences even then? Would he have fallen before an enemy as easily as he had just now?

What _was_ it about Rogue that refused to relinquish its grip on his heart, that separated her from the countless maidens he had conquered in sport? He had known from the beginning that he and she were alike, but only of late had Gambit actually begun to _see_ his reflection in her when he beheld her…

Several times he had considered her fair game, but the barrier between them had put his habits in check. Although he was now glad of this, there was no stopping common attraction from taking place, and Gambit felt it was doubled by the reality that he could never be with her, for her own good as well as his.

Not for the first time, he tore his attention from her to try and focus on more important matters. This was the only instance in which John's information had proven false. Could he have been wrong? Not likely—the man refused to reveal them, but he had connections deep and numerous in many places. Unfortunately, he was still out of town, and if all went well he would not return until the next morning.

Gambit opened the door to his quarters and stepped inside, shrugging off his unbuttoned over-shirt as he went. He was replaying Rogue's deliverance of the message as well as he could remember it, but neither flaw nor ambiguity did he find. After donning a fresh shirt, he contemplated another possibility. What if _Rogue_ had been wrong? She could have easily mixed up words—but then again, she was responsible and good-hearted enough to make every effort to get it right, and he knew she would have treated the situation as though it were her own life in danger rather than Gambit's—

He stopped. His blood seemed to have ceased running, frozen in his veins as horror draped its numbing mantle about his shoulders.

_Her own life…what if…?_

"Oh, no."

Forgetting everything but his last words to her, Gambit seized a pack of cards from his desk and hurried out the door.

:xXxXx:

In the race that followed, Raoul was pushed to his limits as Gambit urged him on across the plains. Horse and rider were a colorless blur against the skyline, the sound of hooves like encroaching thunder. All Gambit could do as he rode was hope his guess had been wrong, that he would find Rogue safe and sound. But when the Dark Raven manor appeared on the horizon, the same heavy foreboding from before returned.

Swiftly Gambit arrived and dismounted, leaving his steed out of sight of any watchmen to make his entrance less obvious. Getting inside the walls was relatively simple, and Gambit set off for the balcony that led to Rogue's room.

There, he found no one to confirm or deny his fears. As he turned around to exit, he saw above the balcony entrance four rough, vertical lines scratched across the wall, another running left to right below them. At this Gambit's mouth went dry. The symbol had been left for him; few others would understand its meaning, certainly no one in Rogue's clan.

His enemies were smart. They had known he would come looking for her, and more likely than not they knew what his next move would be, as well. The worst part of it all was that Gambit saw their strategy. He saw it, but, without an alternative, would have no choice but to play into their hands if he wanted to get her back.

He heard the bedroom door open behind him. Too late to flee, Gambit turned to find himself face-to-face with a startled Scarlet.

"Wait—"

As he said it, his body was stricken still—he could not move. Scarlet's attractive features were overcast with rage, and when she made a gesture he was thrown back against a wall.

"Where is she?" She approached, eyes aflame, but the wind had been so solidly knocked from him that he could not respond. Baring her teeth in a scowl at his hesitation, Scarlet swung her arms around and he was slammed to the hard floor. The back of his head hit hard, dimming his vision. Even if he could have resisted, he would not have chosen to; in a way, he felt he deserved the beating. "I said, where _is_ she?" she demanded, and stepped up beside him to meet his gaze.

"Sc…Scarlet," he managed, breathing labored, "please understand—I don' have her—"

"Liar!" Pressure began to exert itself about his throat, although Scarlet had made no visible movements. "I don't harbor the same pity for thieves that Rogue does," she snarled. "So don't think I'll even hesitate to kill you."

Gambit could not help the touch of sarcasm as he replied in a strained voice, "I wouldn', if I didn' already know that I'm your only source o' information."

She appeared as though she had been slapped. Her glare threatened to bore through him, and he expected another assault of her power; but then he felt the control around him cease a little.

"So you _do_ know something."

"Some," he agreed, "but not all." A pause as he waited to see if she would release him. "I don' know everything," he admitted. "But if you'll trust me enough t'believe what I have t'say, you can help me try an' get her back."

A great debate seemed to be going on in Scarlet's mind. Here was a man whom she had no reason to trust, whom she had seen sneak in before and could easily be lying through his teeth about wanting to help. She looked once at the door, which she had left wide open, and Gambit knew what she was considering. In the end, she raised a hand and the door slammed shut. Simultaneously, he was permitted to move again.

"Fine. Talk." Scarlet crossed her bare arms and leaned back against the desk. He sat up, and he could see her whole body tense, prepared in case he should try anything. "Just know that if you so much as _breathe_ quickly, I—"

"I know, I know." Gambit, starting to rise, decided it would be best to move as little as possible around her and sat back down. The two faced each other wordlessly, neither entirely trusting. "I need you t'tell me everythin' that happened."

Her bright lips twisted into a sneer. "If you're here, you must not be entirely ignorant. But if you don't already know, she was taken last night. I had left the room momentarily, and when I came back she was gone—half this room was destroyed with signs of a struggle." She jerked her head at the crude symbol over the balcony. "That's all that's left of them."

"Them?"

The stare she gave him was bitter. "All the guards on this side of the estate had been subdued moments before it happened. One man could not do that."

Gambit sat in thought. All that she said fit; _they_ had always moved in groups, and this was no different. If they had found her along with Rogue, they would have killed her with little or no vacillation—by this Gambit accepted that there was some truth to her story.

"Your leader?" he inquired. For the first time, some of Scarlet's ferocity wavered.

"She's concerned, of course. Mostly angry. She increased the watch at night, but apparently that doesn't help much." Her meaning was evident as she looked him over disapprovingly. "But she has no leads as to who could have done it."

"An' that's how it should be." He climbed to his feet. "You've told me enough. I'm goin' after her, an' it'll be the last time either o' you have t'see me." Halfway to the window, he was stopped as she moved in his path.

"Wait, I—" Her gravity turned quickly to a resolute determination. "I'm going with you."

"Scarlet—"

"She's _my_ clan sister!" she argued, more anxious than angry. "If I hadn't left when they came, she might still be here!"

"No—Scarlet—" Gambit made as if to touch her shoulder comfortingly, and then thought better of it. "If you'd stayed, you would've died. Don' blame yourself for what happened when it's not your fault."

"…No." Emotionlessly she said, "I suppose that's where you come in, isn't it?" Her words hurt, cutting deep, but he shoved it aside for Rogue's sake. Once more he went around Scarlet, only for her long fingers to catch his arm. "If for some reason you truly care about Rogue at all," she said in a low voice, not looking at him, "then you'll take me along. She needs all the help she can get if our enemies are as strong as you think they are."

At this, Gambit's temper flared. "There's no _think_ to it." He shook her off. "I'm as close as you'll get t'one of 'em without havin' the real thing. Say what you will, but I know these people an' I know what they'll do t'get back at me."

Scarlet's penetrating gaze was on him. "Get back at—?"

"Forget it." He had said too much. He wanted to leave, to get away from this woman who so shamelessly thrust his rightful guilt upon him. It was obvious, however, that her assets could be of great use to him in what he had to do next. "An' if I refuse?" he challenged in retaliation to her request.

"Then I'll take you before my lady myself. We'll find out where Rogue is, regardless of whether you feel like cooperating."

A dark, grim chuckle escaped Gambit as he met her stare directly. "I've been through more in my lifetime than anythin' Darkholme could manage t'dream up. Torture?" He was dripping with scorn. "That would be in vain. If my body were the key t'loosenin' my tongue, t'makin' me surrender, why d'you think _Rogue_ is the one in danger?"

To this Scarlet said nothing. Gambit turned away, his anger dying down, unwilling to watch her expression any longer. He put some distance between them but did not leave; finally, in a flat voice he told her,

"I won' be able t'go after her until tomorrow. You're welcome t'join me then." Before she could protest, he threw in, "I know a man who can help us, but he won' be back in town until the mornin'. If you want a chance at comin' out alive, we'll need him."

This only prompted more arguing, accusations, suspicions, and threats from Scarlet, but when he made it clear that he was not about to move without John, she grudgingly agreed to wait. She did not trust him, she said, but she would find him if he lied.

:xXxXx:

The dark, twisted towers of the Assassin manor were blacker than Gambit remembered. Or perhaps that was the effect of the sinking sun behind it, which cast an orange shade across the scene. The pinnacles seemed to reach for the sky, desperate to pierce it with their jagged tips, but without success.

Raoul at his shoulder, Gambit stood a little ways from the gates. The grounds were so heavily covered with trees and vegetation from the surrounding marsh that his company was easily concealed, but that also meant the enemy would be, as well. Mentally he went over everything he had brought along, the hidden cards and blades that he could withdraw at a moment's notice, and concurrently took in John's last second whispers of advice.

"They'll be expectin' you to take the paths you already know," he pointed out, and moved closer so he could lower his voice still. "You think they've got her down below?"

"Mos' likely."

"Then if that's what you're thinkin', you know guards'll be all over the place down there."

"O' course." Gambit turned around, sighing, and his horse nuzzled him warmly. "Not even I can get in an' out o' there without some detection. It's jus' a matter o' seein' how far I can get before I'm caught."

"Then why are you going alone?" came Scarlet's sharp but low demand. She stepped rather noisily through the undergrowth, her steed plodding along after her. "I don't see why we have to stay out here when you obviously need us—"

"That's b'cause my main job right now is t'find out where she is," Gambit interrupted. "If worse comes t'worse an' I can't get her out, that's where you two come in." Instead of appeasing her, this explanation fueled her impatience.

"But—"

"Easy, girl," said John rather cheerfully, earning a dark look. "Remy's been on rescue missions when he was 'alf this age—no sense in worryin' your pretty li'l self about it."

"An' if I'm caught," Gambit went on, "there's no reason for them t'keep her any longer, so y'all need t'be out here t'get her." This was a lie, and he was not sure why he told it. For one thing, he did not want Scarlet to know why John was really here and what the two of them really had planned. Her face had him guessing she did not believe a word, but she chose not to press. "All right…" Handing Raoul's reins to John, Gambit glanced at the ominous dwelling before them, reminding himself that Rogue was in there somewhere.

Soundlessly he crept forward through the trees, and the thick branches caused the sight of John and Scarlet to quickly fade from view. He was on his own again, and he was heading straight into the heart of his enemies' stronghold.

:xXxXx:

Author's note: Yes, a bit of a short chapter (for me), but the next one will feature some good action scenes to make up for it, I promise.


	9. Desperation

Rogue awoke with a start, knowing where she was and having no need to try and remember why. For an instant she wondered if she had actually been unconscious or not, but then the back of her head throbbed painfully and she was sure. Her cold legs ached from having supported her weight against the hard ground, and she heard the clear tinkling of chains as she attempted to move her arms.

Even though blackness pressed in on all sides, she perceived she was not alone. The open room magnified her sore, weary voice as she asked the shadows, "What do you want?" She had already guessed, and probably correctly, but she hated sitting blind and unaware of her surroundings.

To Rogue's surprise, a woman answered her. "Don' worry. As long as he complies, you'll be fine." The voice, deep and solid, drew closer with heels clicking on the floor to stop on Rogue's left.

"If you're lookin' for ransom, your efforts are wasted," said Rogue quietly. A hint of sadness touched her heart; the memory of her last reunion with Gambit seemed even more vivid in the dark. "Ah doubt ah amount to anythin' as far as he's concerned."

"Oh, don' say that," the woman insisted, sounding impatient. "Don' put yourself amongst the wenches he's taken in an' thrown away after a night. You mean more t'him than _that_." Bitterly, she added, "For some reason, he t'inks you're worth all this trouble."

Some of Rogue's pride crept to the surface, and unable to keep her silence she retorted, "He could say the same thing about you. When he doesn't show—" A sharp slap met the side of her face. She bit her tongue to resist speaking further and sat there, anger burning in her stomach.

"Mind your superiors" was all that the woman said before hurrying from the room. Rogue was left alone to brood in her solemn thoughts, and try as she might to focus on the hatred towards her captors, she felt it being replaced by the heaviness of what she had said. She had all but lost faith in Gambit, certain that he had no reason to endanger his life by coming for her. Irritated though she was at his behavior during their most recent meeting, she could not entirely blame him.

Had their roles been reversed, would Rogue have acted any differently? Something in her mind told her no.

It was strange to think of Gambit as being jealous, but that was the only explanation.

_Why else would he…?_

It no longer mattered. She had acted without thinking, disregarding her own secret feelings for Gambit when she had consented to kissing Piotr. Perhaps she deserved this: a punishment for ignoring what she should have realized long ago.

_Gambit…Remy…_ She wanted to finish the thought, but even there, bound and helpless, she lacked the humility.

:xXxXx:

The hallway—long, bare, and full of shadows—gave off an ominous aura that Gambit could not help but distrust. The number of guards he had met thus far was too small given the circumstances, and he was willing to wager that the rest of them were lying in an approaching ambush. Such details bothered him little; he could take care of himself just fine. The thought of being slowed, however, irritated him greatly, and each run-in with one of the manor's inhabitants left him with a renewed sense of haste afterward.

Turning a corner, Gambit cast a careless glance up and down the path. He was still alone, now facing north if he remembered correctly. He hurried on.

As indulged as he was in his destination, he nonetheless noticed that the place was the same as before, unchanged over the years. More than ever he regretted his history with the Assassins, of having been involved enough to know the corridors of the mansion like he did. Three reckless years earlier, he had possessed nothing that he could call precious aside from his life, and even that held little value to him then. At the present, one of the few things he could dare to claim was on the verge of being lost forever. With that possibility dangling in front of him, his resolve solidified into a fierce determination.

A door behind him flew open. Gambit turned around, patient and slow, as someone yelled at him to stay where he was. He came face-to-face with a young man about his age who stood with a pistol raised, uneasy. He was probably new, full of tales and rumors surrounding Gambit and his power—that was the impression Gambit received from his perturbed appearance.

"Don' move," the man ordered, although it was useless given that his enemy had not shifted since seeing him. Gambit neither said nor did anything, but his eyes moved to focus on a spot over the gunman's shoulder. Untrusting, the man stared at him, and then after a few more seconds followed Gambit's gaze and glanced quickly behind him.

Of course, that was all Gambit needed. In an instant he had closed the distance between them, ducking as the man saw his strategy and aimed to fire. Gambit seized the gun, directed it skyward, and sent his free fist into the man's jaw. The weapon came free; a second later, it connected with the opposite side of that same jaw to send its owner to the plush rug in a crumpled heap.

_Hardly the resistance I'd expected._ Unable to hide a frown, Gambit tossed the pistol aside and continued down the hallway.

Another two passages and he had reached what he was looking for. Of the four doors visible, he approached the one farthest down and opened it, revealing a steep staircase that descended into darkness. He started down them at once, withdrawing a card from the inside of his shirt to light and use as a torch as he went.

There was no banister, but Gambit kept a hand on the stone wall to guide himself. When the stairs curved, sharp and sudden, to the right, the walls fell away and he was forced to rely on balance and his pink glow of light to keep his footing. The air became cold and almost damp as he climbed lower, reminding him of the dungeon in his own home, and a stinging sense of pain and hatred filled his chest at the thought. He pushed it away heatedly, knowing it was neither the time nor the place for reminiscing.

On the last step, he extinguished the card as torchlight greeted him and gripped his sword hilt. There were three cells in all, each joined to the last, and Gambit kept them on his left as he went. The first was empty, as was the second. He slowed when he came to the end, not out of fear, but uncertainty.

If Rogue was here, if she was all right, how would she react to seeing him? He was to blame for all she had been put through, true, but he still could not shake the guilt that held him when he thought of his parting words to her.

_Get thee to a nunnery…_

Would she forgive him? Gambit felt he would go mad if she did not, but as long as he got her out of her captivity alive, that was enough for the time being.

He arrived at the final cell and touched the lock, prepared to save time by destroying it, and then felt his heart plummet. Beyond the door, the jail was empty; Rogue was not there.

Although not entirely surprised, his fury at losing her again got the best of him. At his back he discerned the light sound of stealthy footsteps, and in a fit of rage he tore his sword from its sheath and whipped about, driving the glinting silver edge forward. An older man whom Gambit had never seen before received the blow in silence, too stunned to speak. He hit the floor with a muffled echo, dead in a matter of seconds.

Twirling his blade, Gambit glared defiantly at the darkness. "Who else?" he called. He threw his arms outward and let his sword clatter to the ground. _"Est-ce que je suis venu ici pour jouer un jeu, Boudreaux?"_

From the lightless corners of the room came the click of guns and sliding of blades from their scabbards. Gambit only stood, hands at his sides, as at least a dozen men moved to surround him. One of them broke from the circle and came forward, motioning with his pistol that Gambit should move as he was told. When the order went unheeded, the man snapped gruffly that he was their prisoner and ought to obey if he wished to live. That, too, was ignored, and in retaliation the gun jerked closer.

Before anyone could react, Gambit caught the man's wrist and twisted it, driving him downward, and after pulling the pistol away forced all his strength into hurling the Assassin toward his line of comrades. This act was hardly done when Gambit up-righted the gun, took aim, and fired, hitting another besieger in the shoulder. The circle moved in to seize him, and Gambit disposed of the weapon by launching it—not without effect—into an approaching face.

He fell onto his hands, one of which curled around his abandoned sword as his body twisted in the air, delivering a series of heavy kicks to those close enough. Once again on his feet, Gambit easily dodged a clumsy tackle and, using the attacker's momentum, took hold of the man's head and slammed him face first into the bars of a cell.

So great was Gambit's desire for the release of his frustration that he could have easily remained there, downing each man until none were left and he felt content again. He knew, however, that Rogue had to be somewhere in the manor, and so he chose to back down. About half of the men still stood when he turned and took off for the stairs, biting back his pride and running as fast as his strength and vigor would carry him.

He reached the top and flew into the hallway. Kicking the door shut behind him, Gambit looked left, right—there, a table against the wall. Swiftly he leapt onto it, and with arms outstretched he made a jump at the ceiling where his fingers hooked onto the rafters overhead. Up, up he pulled until he was perched in and concealed by the shadows, untouchable by the soft light below him. He had barely moved into position when the dungeon door opened directly under him and the remaining men surged out. Within seconds they were gone, ignorant of the fact that their quarry had been little more than an arm's length out of reach.

Gambit hovered in place as more footsteps fell upon the stairs. Another man appeared through the door—swiftly Gambit dropped behind him, drawing his sword. His left hand took hold of the unsuspecting man's shirt and pulled him backward to allow the blade to slide into place over his throat. He wasted no time in hissing,

"Where is she? The girl who was brought in as a hostage?"

Having stiffened before, the man relaxed somewhat and laughed. "Gambit, correct? He he. I underestimated you."

"_Where_ is she? Speak, or—"

"Go ahead." The man made a shrugging motion. "Death by your hand makes for a better fate than the one I'd get for tellin' you anythin'."

Blood rushed to Gambit's head and he was momentarily tempted to oblige. "…Assassin," he said calmly, "don' be so quick t'doubt an enemy, especially a thief. I know more ways than one on how t'slit your throat, none o' which you'd find pleasant or quick." Gambit pressed the blade tighter against his captive's neck, enough to feel a pulse. "Or since I'm in a really foul mood, I could simply blow each o' your limbs off an' leave you here." As if for emphasis, he charged the sword so that it glowed with his trademark crimson light.

A pause followed. Neither man moved, each waiting for the other, and at last the Assassin surrendered. "She's in Mistress Bella Donna's chambers. Take the firs' staircase on the—"

Relinquishing his grip, Gambit brought his hilt down on the man's head and watched him fall unconscious to the ground.

That was all the information he needed. No matter how hard he had striven to forget, the location of _that_ room was branded deep into his memory.

:xXxXx:

The elegant double doors gave way without resistance. Beyond them, yellow light from a majestic chandelier illuminated every corner of the large room, making Gambit blink, but his eyes found Rogue instantly.

Back against the footboard of the bed, her arms were suspended by the chains that bound each hand to a bedpost. Her head was hanging towards the floor, preventing her from seeing him enter.

Touched by a sudden sense of urgency, Gambit hurried over to drop to his knees in front of her. His gloves provided no protection to his fingers, so he took her face in his palms to gently lift it upward.

"Rogue…"

After everything he had been through—the worrying, the doubt, the fatigue, the physical effort—Gambit knew at that moment that it had all been worth it. Rogue's eyes, unfocused, looked at him, and it seemed to him that their green hue brightened at the realization of whom it was.

She smiled—a real, sincere smile—and he noticed that her left cheek was bruised. He longed to run his fingers over her pale skin and apologize for everything, to promise it was all over and that he would take her away from all that she had been subjected to. He wanted to do so much at once that he was actually overwhelmed, and only Rogue's change of face was enough to clear his head.

"No…Gambit," she was saying, "you shouldn't be here, she…"

"What?"

Rogue pulled away from him. "Gambit, go! She's here; she's the one who did this—she's behind the door—" Even as she said it, Gambit heard the doors click shut. As much as the word _she_ puzzled him, he bared his sword, stood, and turned around, muscles tensed for battle.

Far off, he heard his breath leave him in a surprised exhale. His fingers twitched, almost dropping the weapon they held, but he composed himself. He felt he had to speak to assert that he was not seeing things, and so presently, blankly, he said one word:

"Belle."

Impossible to mistake, she stood there in all her beautiful glory as he remembered her—Bella Donna Boudreaux, easily the fairest woman in all of Laurendor that he had seen. Her golden curls fell around a flawless face of bright blue eyes, red lips, and perfectly shaded skin. The expensive folds of dress that she donned did little to show off her figure, but Gambit knew it was as fair a sight as the rest of her.

Now those eyes watched him, reflecting what her face did not: hurt, pain, wretchedness.

"Remy." Her deep, sweet voice was solemn. "Three years, isn't it?" Gambit did not answer. "I know," she went on, taking a step forward. "I've counted the days I've sat here, wonderin' why you left like you did, forgettin' 'bout me—"

"Belle, I—"

"An' now you show up like this, riskin' your life for some common slave girl like I never existed—"

"I didn' know, Belle," he said coolly, a heavy contrast to her rising tone. "I was told that you'd disappeared—I took you for dead—"

"_Dead?"_ This was all but a shriek. Bella Donna paused before continuing in a whisper, "You don' know how many times I've wished I was. Abandoned by my fiancé, dishonored like a whore—"

Rogue shifted. For all the money in the world, Gambit would not have turned around to see her expression.

"Why did you leave?" Bella Donna asked suddenly. "We both know Julien is no match for you! Why didn' you end the duel like you were supposed to?"

Gambit thought for a moment. "I don' know," he responded quietly. "Our weddin' on the horizon an' all…I guess it would've been too much like killin' family."

"An' so you chose t'walk away, t'abandon that family instead." Bella Donna's hand flew to her neck as she looked away.

_So this is it. I thought I escaped my past, but here it is._ He had spent so much time running that he had forgotten how to act in the face of his history; he was as curious to his answers as Bella Donna was.

She met his gaze a second time and he knew the question before she asked it. "Why didn' you take me wit' you?"

He sheathed his sword. With nothing to hold, his hands only hung awkwardly as he strove for an answer befitting of what he felt. "When I left, I forfeited everythin' I had except m'life. I couldn' ask you t'do the same, t'leave your family an' home jus' t'be wit' me—"

"But it was enough!" She moved closer, and then stopped as if she had thought better of it. "If I'd been willin' t'give my hand t'you, what made you think I wouldn' have gone a step farther?"

"Our marriage was politics, Belle. I thought you'd be happier that way."

"Politics?" she repeated. "Tell me, Remy, was it _politics_ that prompted the words you gave me before you left? Was everything we said an' did nothin' more than the product o' politics?"

It crossed Gambit's mind to free Rogue and leave as quickly as possible, but Bella Donna's distress had an inexplicable effect on him, the same effect that had, despite her unpredicted appearance, induced him to speak to her as though he had seen her as recently as the day before. At the very least, he should take responsibility for what he had done to her; he owed her that much, and if she had gone to the trouble of abducting Rogue to get his attention, he figured he should give it to her.

"If I'd known," he said, meaning it, "if I'd known you were alive, I would've told you sooner—"

"What? That you would soon as settle for that wench—" she thrust an accusing finger in Rogue's direction, "—as you would for me?"

"_You_," he murmured, temper flaring, "will not speak o' her that way in my presence."

Bella Donna stared. "So it's true." Her voice quivered in a way that made it difficult to tell whether she was about to cry or scream. "An' after your public disgrace, I thought you could sink no lower."

He started towards her, checked himself, and came to an abrupt halt. She laughed unexpectedly. "So that's it, then. She's twisted you t'the point where you'd consider strikin' me for simply statin' what she is."

"Don' forget, Belle. Her an' I are no different."

"I beg t'differ." Her eyes flashed. "You choose _now_ t'place yourself among your kind? How noble. But tell me, Remy—or Gambit, or whatever name it is you go by these days—if your actions were so noble, then _why did you leave us t'suffer so?_" She was rising to a yell, but Gambit could only watch, puzzled. "How often, if at all, has this girl sat an' suffered in silence in your name? Was it she who lived on the false hope that you would return t'her wit' open arms, jus' as in love as you had claimed t'be? Was it she who suffered for nine fruitless moons in vain?" Gambit stood his ground as she approached. "Where was she when you took my hand? Where was she when I spent so many sleepless, humiliated nights wonderin' where you were? Where, before God, was she when a part o' me _died_?" That said, Bella Donna seized the front of his shirt and came to him, burying her weeping face in his chest.

"When we…were…I," she gasped, "where was she? Where were you?"

Gambit raised his arms hesitantly to wrap them around her, holding her to stifle her sobs and, for the moment, forgetting that Rogue was there. In an effort to console her, he said softly, "I'm sorry, Belle, you're right—I never should've left you like I did…" When she seemed to have calmed down, he added haltingly, "Belle…a few weeks ago, I was passin' near the Moronnar when I was attacked." He waited, but she said naught. "You know anythin' about that?"

"O' course." She sounded distracted, half-awake. "He sent 'em after you."

"Who?"

"But he said you were trouble. Too much of it."

"Who did, Belle? Who sent those men?" He had sensed something strange in Bella Donna's behavior and speech, and now he began to wonder if she had lost her mind. There was an unusual sense about her that he had never felt before; it worried him.

She drew back to look into his face. "Why d'you love her more than me, Remy? Why…" He flinched inwardly at _love._ As long as he had lived, Gambit liked neither the word nor the idea, feeling he could never truly experience it himself in spite of the lies he had told in its name. But if that was so, then why had he gotten such a familiar feeling when she said it? Part of him wanted to dwell on it some more, but a desperate cry broke into his thoughts.

"_Gambit!_ Look—!"

At first, all he felt was a strange sort of pressure. Then, steadily, a stinging sensation took over, and within seconds was replaced with an explosion of burning pain. Gradually Gambit looked down, and with faint disbelief he beheld the ivory hilt in his left side. Bella Donna's thin but strong fingers were curled around it, already coated in blood.

He stumbled away from her, the knife retreating wetly from his flesh, and hit the wall to grasp his wound. Gambit's head was abuzz with multicolored lights and sounds, and as he slid to the floor he comprehended that Rogue was still screaming. Whether at him or Bella Donna, he could not tell.

Darkness covered his eyes, and he feared that he had fainted, or died, leaving Rogue alone. The pain, however, remained, and through that he knew he lived still.

"Nice move," he breathed, wincing. "How long you been plannin' that one?"

"Years." Her voice cracked. "Not that you would know."

Teeth gritted, Gambit forced his eyes open to focus on her. "Fine. Take your revenge. But leave Rogue out o' this."

"You mean release her."

"O' course!" He looked past Bella Donna at Rogue, whose fear and concern were obvious as her gaze went between the bleeding gash and his face. "She has nothin' t'do wit' you, an' you've got nothin' t'fear from her. Given her word against yours…" He stopped for breath. "…She'd be charged wit' treason if she tried t'speak o' what's happened here. Let her go, Belle."

Rogue opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a stern glance that made her frown. Bella Donna was watching her with a sour expression.

"She means that much t'you."

Gambit rested his head against the white wallpaper. "I don' want any more innocent blood on my—"

"My lady!" The doors burst open and a disheveled man rushed into the room, hurried over to Bella Donna, and fell onto his knees. "My lady, there's been an attack on the front gates—"

"What! By whom?"

"We don' know, Madame. He's a stranger, but it's suspected he's a slave—he's already sent half the courtyard up in flames—"

Gambit's mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile; Bella Donna caught it and turned on him in a fit of rage. "You—! What have you done? Who's wit' you?"

"Temper, Belle." His side had begun to blaze fiercely and beads of sweat were forming on his neck, but he managed a smirk. "You always did have trouble controllin' it."

He would not have been surprised if she had used her knife to kill him there and then, but she only scowled and addressed her subordinate. "Spare what men you can t'watch these two. If either tries to escape, kill 'em." She left, and after glancing uncertainly between the captives, the man followed suit.

Alone, neither word nor look was exchanged as the two sat, unmoving. In the distance, Gambit thought he heard gunfire over a flame's dull roar.

"She's your fiancée." His head jerked in Rogue's direction. She was turned away, and although she did not see, he nodded.

"Was," he corrected. Overcoming the urge to sigh, he began, "I thought about tellin' you—"

"You had no need to," she interrupted, and fixed her stare on the floor near him. "It's not like it mattered whether ah knew."

This time he did sigh, frustrated at the frame of mind into which he had driven her. There was little difference between the attitude she held now and the one he had seen when he first met her: isolated, cold, and indifferent. "Rogue, I don'—" Several guards chose that moment to enter. They moved into place, two before Gambit and one before Rogue, and he noticed that the smell of smoke came with them. Rogue had taken the opportunity to avoid his eyes again.

He studied the men, determining the best way to act next, and then decided that they had little time for planning and started to stand.

"What're you doin'? Stay down!"

Gambit nearly doubled over at the pain from his injury, but he ignored both it and the guards and continued to get up. "I know it may not seem like it, Rogue…" Back against the wall, he paused to ease the burning. "But I respect you a whole lot more than you think."

"Shut up! An' I told you t'sit down!"

His eyes were screwed shut to keep his tone steady. "I'm…proud t'say I value your life over every one…in this household combined." He swallowed and tasted iron. "An' I'll be damned if I let it end here."

"Hey!" One of the men drew a pistol and pressed it against the flesh of Gambit's neck. "You got three seconds t'get back down, or—what—!" He leapt backwards and cursed as the gun began to glow. "What did you do, you trash!" What took place next startled even Gambit. The gun exploded as intended, but he could not say why it was about five times bigger and more powerful than he had meant for it to be; perhaps his energy had reacted too strongly with the gunpowder. He did not particularly care at the moment, and was only concerned with the fact that the guard had been permanently put down. While the other two stood dumbfounded, Gambit took his sword from his side, and with an unexpected strength and speed he sent the flat side of the blade into the nearest man's skull.

The last of them was swifter—he dodged Gambit's blow and in the same movement thrust a fist into his injured side. Crying out, Gambit hit the floor, his sword somehow still in his grip. The man, armed with a knife, bore down on him, but with his back to Rogue did not see her kick at his legs to sweep them out from under his body. He hit the floor heavily and Gambit was up, plunging his sword deep into the guard's chest.

:xXxXx:

Together they raced out of the foyer and into the courtyard where flames were raging, blending with the last rays of the sun. Despite the damage that had been done to the property, the fire had not entered the manor, and Gambit was grateful that John had controlled himself.

_Although, the average person wouldn' look at this as a product o' self control,_ he admitted, the scorched grass crunching under his boots.

Rogue was at his side, slowed to match his hindered speed. As the archway rose up before them, a most relieving symbol of freedom, Gambit caught sight of several approaching Assassins and stopped.

"Keep goin'!" he ordered. "I'll hold 'em off. Scarlet should be right outside—find her an' go!"

"But—" Her protest was drowned out by his detonating playing cards.

"I'll be fine! I've been in worse spots than this! You know that!" In the corner of his eye, he saw that she had not moved. "Rogue!"

She turned to go, and he diverted his attention back to his dwindling number of cards. _"Argh!"_ she yelled, making him look back. "You dim-witted thief! Quit orderin' me around like a housewife! Ah've come this far with you an' ah don't plan to turn tail now, so shut up an' start worryin' about your own self!" There was a ferocity in her eyes that told Gambit not to argue. They beheld each other on that field of battle, accepting what neither could dare to speak. They were in the situation together, and at that point more than words were required to pull them apart.

He smiled wearily, but it faded as he looked past her. "Rogue—!"

While they had stood thus, the wooden gate had begun to slide into place under the archway to trap them inside. Shoving the pain away, he pushed her ahead of him as he ran. "Go! Go!" They took off, Gambit's breath already coming in aching bursts from what he knew was a large loss of blood.

The distance between them and the gate was closing, but not fast enough. It was already at waist height—knee height— "Jump for it!" he cried, and immediately Rogue dove, hit the ground, and rolled, only just passing under it. A second later it came to a shuddering halt as it finally closed.

On the other side she stood up, and Gambit watched her face fall as she realized that he had not made it in time. Not allowing her the chance to speak, he told her, "Don't worry 'bout me. I know more ways out o' here than one. Jus' go."

"Ah won't!"

"Rogue, please. There's not much time. Find Scarlet an' the horses an' get out o' here—me an' John will be fine, I promise." She still seemed doubtful, so he added, "B'sides, you can't do anythin' for me now. The best you can do is let me know that you'll be safe. Please."

She looked into each of his eyes, searching for a reason to remain. At his back, the sounds of more Assassins were growing closer. Rogue exhaled sharply. "You'd better come back alive."

Gambit gave her a grim smile, but seized her hand through the gate as she moved to leave. "Rogue, wait. There's one thing…" He hesitated, and then thinking of no better way to phrase the question burst out, "D'you forgive me?"

"Forgive?" Her eyebrows came together. "But you didn't—"

"No. Not jus' for this, for everythin'. Everythin' I've done, I've said—d'you forgive me?" Rogue's eyes flashed with memory and he waited, wondering if she would and whether he deserved it.

"Of course." Her answer was rimmed with a sadness that he sensed was not directed at him. "But…" She lifted her face, and her unspoken question was written in her emerald gaze: _Why are you asking me this now?_

He watched her a moment longer before turning away, silent.

:xXxXx:

She had told no one of that first fateful encounter in town, wishing more than anything to avoid conflict between clans. While the merchant's contact with her was acceptable in that situation considering what she had attempted, her acclaimed rescuer's was not. The laws of the Dark Ravens were clear, and Rogue was in no position to challenge them. However much the man had done for her, the overseers of those laws would look on his benevolence as criminal, which could put his very life on the line.

Rogue was many things, but she was no traitor. She had felt no gratitude towards him then and had kept her silence only in what she felt was a proper response to one of her kind. So many changes had occurred since then, and now she could not recall a time when she had been so sick with concern.

Only moments after leaving Gambit she had discovered Scarlet in the surrounding wood with the horses. Pyro had joined them shortly, and Rogue was both surprised and incensed at his agreement with Scarlet to leave Gambit be.

"If they didn' kill 'im outright, they must want 'im for somethin'," he had reasoned. "Believe me, girl, he'll get out."

"How can you say that about your friend? That woman's mad! There's no tellin' what—"

"Woman?"

"The Boudreaux woman, she—"

Pyro had caught her by the shoulders so firmly that it almost hurt. He ignored Scarlet's objection, and in the same tone as when he had relayed his cryptic message to Rogue in Sir Erik's dwelling, he inquired gravely, "Did this woman 'ave golden hair, 'bout Remy's age?"

"Yes—he called her Belle, but—"

He had sworn, earning a disapproving look from Scarlet, and released her. "Belle…how?"

Despite Rogue's questioning, he had refused to indulge on the subject and said that they should get home. Troubled, he departed, leaving Raoul in their care when the horse vehemently refused to let him mount.

Now the grey stallion trotted along beside them, his reins in Rogue's fist as she rode behind Scarlet. He had denied the two women in their attempts to ride him as well, but in truth Rogue was glad of his company. Watching him, she felt his presence was a symbol of Gambit's eventual return, like she had been charged with the steed's care until his master came to retrieve him. Foolish and perhaps a little immature, the idea still comforted her.

One thing she admired about Scarlet was her silence: she did not press for an explanation, and Rogue became curious as to how much Gambit—or Pyro, for that matter—had told her. Whatever the case, Rogue chose to keep her thoughts to herself for fear of accidentally revealing too much of what was on her mind.

She wanted to be angry at Gambit—for getting her involved, for not telling her that he had been engaged—but she also knew that she bore as much blame as he. The man had even come to save her, and could have very possibly forfeited his life in doing so. As much as she tried to disregard the truth, she was sure that her feigned anger was nothing more than a failed attempt at overcoming the fear and grief that gripped her heart.

"Rogue?"

She started and blinked at Scarlet. "What?"

"I said, we're here."

"Oh." Sliding off the horse, Rogue gazed up at the manor that—for a while—she had believed she might never see again. Candles and lamplight illuminated many of the large windows, recently lit. She turned to Scarlet. "Ah…ah know ah haven't been too…honest with you," she started awkwardly, but Scarlet shook her head.

"Don't worry. You're going to have enough people asking you questions tonight—I can wait." At that, Rogue smiled, more thankful to her clan sister than she had ever felt. Even so, this sudden sympathy confused her; it did not seem right that Scarlet should be so free-going after all that had happened. Before she could respond, Scarlet nodded at Raoul. "I suppose I can put him with the others for now. I've got stable duty for the next week, so no one should ask any questions."

That was when the front doors flew open, spilling warm yellow light across the dark lawn. Blinded, Rogue could only distinguish a group of around a dozen people hurrying to get over to them, but then long arms were thrown about her in an embrace and she heard Lady Darkholme's voice in her ear.

"Rogue, darling! You have no idea how worried I've been—when the guards said you were coming through the gates, I could have wept—oh, you poor thing, you're filthy—is that blood? Are you hurt? Come now, let me get a good look at you—"

Rogue suffered the interrogation process in silence, and then once more when Irene was present. She replied patiently to their questions about her health, at the same time gazing at those around them. Ten or so of her fellow clanswomen made up the throng, but to her surprise she discovered a male face among them. He was old, far older than Irene and even older than Sir Erik. His head was arrayed with snow-white hair, and beneath it, eyes that made her want to turn away from him in distrust—

Her breath left her as she realized that she knew him: he was the elderly man who had once greeted her in Les Galen; Jean-Luc's subordinate.

_Why is he here?_ Looking him over, Rogue saw that he was garbed in travelers' clothes. Most likely, he had come as part of an inter-clan conference.

"Oh, we'll save the rest for after you've eaten," the Lady was saying. She began to pull Rogue along toward the manor. "You should get some rest first—all of you, go on, I'm sure you have work to do—here, dear, sit down." Rogue obeyed and took a seat on the stone stairs, and the group of onlookers gradually thinned until only she, Scarlet, the Lady, Irene, and, much to her discomfort, the old man remained. Lady Darkholme sat next to her and clasped Rogue's hands between her own, speaking words of consolation, and Rogue felt a deep flow of affection as the woman turned and said, "Sir Nicolas, can you excuse us for a few moments, please?"

"O' course, m'lady, o' course." He bowed his head, and lifting it again looked slyly over to where Scarlet stood holding the horses. "But, if I may, m'lady, that yonder steed has caught my eye."

Ice coated the inside of Rogue's chest.

"Well, I'm sure you can speak to Scarlet if you're interested in a purchase," said the Lady, "but—"

"No, no, you misunderstand me." Nicolas stood up, his eyes narrowed at Raoul. "It is…" Rogue felt him look at her. "May I ask…Mistress…where you obtained such a beast?"

She did not answer, and Lady Darkholme retorted in annoyance, "If you don't mind, this poor girl has just returned from I know not where—"

"Please, m'lady, bear wit' me." He held up a hand. "I only wish t'solve this mystery as much as you. For you see, that grey horse bears an exact resemblance t'one o' our own—the master's son, or half-son, I should say." This last bit was accompanied by something that, to Rogue, faintly resembled a sneer.

"Oh?" He now had the Lady's full attention.

Nicolas, approaching the horse, tried to take the animal's proud head in his hand, but Raoul snorted and drew away. On the second attempt, the man barely avoided a savage snap at his wrinkled fingers. He consented to pointing at the reins and asked, "Do you see the crest about the stirrups an' bit? Gambit's known for it in our household."

Lady Darkholme placed a hand on each of Rogue's shoulders and came close. "Rogue." Reluctantly, Rogue raised her eyes.

"Yes, milady."

"Tell me—child…" Her grip tightened almost threateningly. "Where did you get this horse?"

Rogue was speechless, heart racing. She did not dare go to Scarlet for assistance, and so instead she stared at Nicolas, trying to tell him without words that he was condemning one of his own people. Even if she did not trust him in the least, she needed his help for Gambit's sake, but she felt her heart freeze at his expression.

Although he wore a baffled appearance, in those cold eyes Rogue caught a look that was anything but. Had she not known any better, she would have thought he was suppressing a smile.

:xXxXx:

Author's note: Whoo, long one. Did that make up for the last chapter? Heh. Anyhow, if you review, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know your thoughts on how I handled the "return of the psycho, bipolar girlfriend!" angle. I'm particularly concerned with whether the whole thing came off as cliché, so I'll love you forever if you honestly tell me what you thought of it.


	10. Sacrifice

Rogue's skin felt cold. Beneath the long sleeves that were shining white, the color of purity, her cursed flesh was uncommonly cool and irritated under all who were watching. She felt the unseeing eyes of Irene, the commanding glare of the Lady, the cool stare of Sir Erik, and the half-interested gazes of both her clan sisters and the men she was to soon call her brothers.

On her left Piotr stood, tall and striking, eyes forward. With some difficulty, she lifted her own to the person in front of them, a fat, balding middle-aged man with a Bible tucked under his arm as he spoke.

The same priest rarely performed both the Rite of Acceptance and the actual wedding. Should Rogue ever come to see the day of her matrimonial bonding, the odds that she would see this man again after today were low. Not that she minded; he kept drawing out a thick handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his round face as he droned on, and his low, heavy voice made her feel all the more claustrophobic.

"—And thus under the guidance and consent of these two leaders, Sir Erik Lensherr and Lady Raven Darkholme, this man before me, known formally as Colossus, has on this day appealed to this young lady, Rogue, for her hand—"

Trying to keep her frown from showing, Rogue reflected on some of the little history she knew—while the Church had insisted on using a slave's real name in something as holy as marriage, the government had forbidden it. It had said that giving them real names, treating them as real people, would have led to the supposition that the two classes were on equal terms. She swallowed a sigh; it was a darker bit of history, to be sure, and the man who had protested the loudest and longest against the Church's wish—his surname was Kelly, or so she thought—was said to be one of the leading influences in the decisions regarding the Second Class.

"You have, on this day, according to tradition and the ways stated for your class, asked Rogue for her hand, correct?"

"Correct." Piotr's voice was deep but blank, betraying no hint of the answer he had received. Not that it mattered. Everyone in the room had predicted the only possible outcome.

A twinge of annoyance flared in Rogue's chest, partly at herself and partly, she was surprised to discover, at the Lady. Doubtlessly, Lady Darkholme had thrown this arrangement together as hastily as was within her power, and for what she perceived was good reason.

Rogue watched the priest withdraw the handkerchief yet again, her mind flying back to the night before.

_Nicolas,_ she thought, almost chanting the name. _Nicolas. Nicolas. Why? Surely he must have known the effect that his words would have…_

"For you see, that grey horse bears an exact resemblance t'one o' our own," he had said—"the master's son, or half-son, I should say."

_Of _course_ he knew; he can't possibly be that dense. He must've meant to alert the Lady, but why? What reason is there in betraying his master's son?_

Following the old man's words, Lady Darkholme had pressed her incessantly for answers. Mind tired and blank, Rogue told what she had deemed a pack of half-lies—she described how two strangers had appeared in her bedroom and abducted her one night, how she had awoken in a strange place. She told of Bella Donna.

There, Rogue had paused for only a second, and then told of how a man she had never seen before, Gambit, had found her. He had not told much about himself, but she had assumed he was also a prisoner, for he spoke of the Assassins as his enemies. Guards showed up not long after, and in the foray she lost track of her rescuer, but not before he told her to take his horse and flee.

Whether or not the Lady believed her tale, she could not say for sure. When questioned about Scarlet's involvement, Rogue could only respond with silence. Scarlet was questioned next without delay, and having no reason to lie to her master, she related to Lady Darkholme how Gambit had shown up the morning after Rogue's disappearance, much of the conversation they had held, and his promise to help infiltrate the Assassin's property to get Rogue back.

Scarlet did not, however, mention anything about having met Gambit before that day.

Rogue was grateful for her clan sister's help, however small it may have been, but after that, she was on her own. Lady Darkholme did not voice her suspicions—at least not then—and Rogue had been sent to her chamber to remain there until told. As she was leaving, she had heard the Lady give orders for security to be doubled.

"And you, Rogue, have on this day, according to tradition and the ways stated for your class, been asked for your hand in marriage by Colossus, the man beside you now, and no other, correct?"

"Correct."

The stiffness in the room faded: this was the only important part, as far as all the onlookers were concerned.

"By the power of God granted in me," the priest said, obviously relieved at nearly finishing, "I now ask you to relay your answer before these gathered witnesses as you have decided, to either bond you in holy matrimony for life, or to turn away from this path so that, God willing, another may be found."

Her hands were light and trembling.

"Rogue—do you accept this man's proposal and agree, upon your word, to give him your hand as soon as the Lord may grant?"

:xXxXx:

_Four hours ago_

"So you see," said Rogue finally, eyes averted, "ah cannot accept. To do so would be unfair to you—you, who deserve a wife who would love you unconditionally, an' although ah confess that ah was attracted to you at one point, an' for good reason, you deserve more than ah could give." Reluctant, but feeling that the man had earned it, she looked into Piotr's face. "Please forgive me, an' try to understand."

He was silent for a good minute, giving her time to feel relief at having confessed the truth and guilt for her rejection. Then he squeezed her gloved hand affectionately and looked at her with a small but genuine smile.

"Of course I understand. Having been turned down once has certainly softened the blow." Here he sighed in good humor, and then a little more gravely added, "I will not pretend that I am not disappointed; but even so, I would not want to fulfill my own happiness by taking a wife who, if for only an instant, would regret her choice."

Following his words, Rogue felt an enormous rush of gratitude. Had he pressed hard enough, Piotr could well have forced her into the marriage, as long as the Lady and Sir Erik had had no objections.

Stepping out of her usual lines of comfort, she threw her arms around him in a brief embrace. "Thank you. Ah pray that you'll find someone as kind-hearted an' worthy of you as ah hope ah may one day be." He returned the gesture warmly, and Rogue drew back onto the bench they shared and brushed aside a strand of her hair, set loose by the breeze sliding through the courtyard.

"And I send my blessings to the man who has earned your affection, although I see that he has no need of them," he replied. "If…I may," he began hesitantly, "I know it is none of my concern…"

"No, please," she urged. "Go on."

"I am just curious as to why this man has deserved you while I have not." Seeing that she was about to object, Piotr raised a hand. "My words hold no bitterness. I wish only to improve upon myself so that I might be a better suitor in the years to come."

Rogue could not help smiling at the wit in his tone, but it faded from her lips as she attempted to come up with an answer. "Ah…ah don't know," she admitted finally. "Ah tried to tell mahself that ah hated him once, but perhaps ah was just tryin' to deny what ah already knew was true." The thought gave her a strange feeling that she could not place. "Ah don't even know if he's still alive."

Her voice was even, despite that the possibility made her stomach twist. Admitting it made the truth harder to bear, but a part of her was comforted by sharing her concern with someone who would listen. "It's…hard to say, precisely."

"Things like these often are." She looked at Piotr and received a knowing smile as he stood. "But come—we have a ceremony to attend soon, and I am afraid that the guests might not be as easy to convince as I." He offered his arm, which she took, and escorted her back inside.

:xXxXx:

"No."

It came out as a breath rather than a word. Rogue's heart had stopped. The priest leaned forward. "Come again, my lady?"

Her breathing quickened and she felt her eyes narrow as she forced her head up. Swallowing once, she breathed in and said again, now louder and more fervently, "No."

As predicted, a wave of murmuring broke out in one corner of the room and spread rapidly. She spoke over them, directly to the priest: "Ah decline his offer of engagement—"

"Rogue!" The Lady's appalled voice, rising above everyone else's.

"—an' any offer as such that he may make in the future."

"Very well." The priest nodded and made as if to speak further, but then stopped. An instant later, strong fingers seized Rogue's arm and wrenched her around to bring her face to face with Lady Darkholme. The woman was still composed, albeit somewhat whiter than usual, and her lips had formed a thin line.

"Rogue," she hissed, low and bristling with a barely contained anger, "I do not know how you have the impudence to act as you just have, but I refuse to walk out of this hall without your word to marry this man." Flashing, her eyes turned briefly upon Piotr before coming back to Rogue. "Do you understand me?"

Over her shoulder, the onlookers were watching, waiting. There was Scarlet, her expression unreadable; at her side, Pyro, with an amused look that said he was glad to have accompanied his clan brothers to the ceremony. At the sight of him, Rogue felt a little strength seep into her and she faced the Lady.

"That ah cannot do."

Lady Darkholme's eyes seemed ready to burst out of their sockets. She rounded on the priest as if her subordinate's defiance were his fault, but then only ordered, "Do _not_ close this ceremony, do you hear me?" and pulled Rogue, none too gently, after her from the room.

Whispers and open stares followed them into the corridor, where the Lady all but slammed the heavy door behind them. Released, Rogue retreated against the wall and resisted the urge to rub her forearm.

"Rogue," said the Lady almost immediately, almost trembling with rage as she approached, "I have done _nothing_—nothing, do you understand me?—to warrant this behavior from you. I have only cared for you as well as I could—"

"With all due respect, milady," Rogue interrupted stiffly, "spitin' you would be the last reason ah would turn down a promisin' marriage. Ah assure you that mah own concerns were the only ones in mind—"

"Silence." This was said in a whisper, but held enough of a threat to have an effect. "That much was obvious, child. Anyone present could have seen that your own interests were the _only_ thing you found time to consider." Rogue's interjection was hushed at a glare. "After the life you've had, I had thought you would stop making idiotic decisions on your own and let someone else guide you—but apparently I was hoping too much." Her black hair poured about her shoulders as she shook her head. "When did you plan to tell me?"

"Tell—?"

"Or was I to find out when you disappeared one day, running off to marry that filthy lapdog of a thief?"

All of Rogue's senses stopped. Suddenly she was only aware of a jolt of painful surprise that had gripped her chest at those last words, and a small noise escaped her in disbelief.

"Of course I knew," Lady Darkholme scowled, reading the question that Rogue could not voice. "News of your little venture in town reached me rather quickly, and when you didn't repeat it to anyone, I thought you had done so out of pride. But then you were actually stupid enough to bring him to my very gate."

Rogue did not move. She only breathed, remembering the night the Lady was speaking of.

"He…he was mah guide," she managed, "nothin'—"

"Nothing? _Nothing?_" The Lady was almost laughing. "Need I mention when he snuck onto my grounds during the summer ball? Or perhaps when you encountered him in the market not long after?"

_She's lying. She has to be._

"The only reason I didn't have him put to death was because I thought you were wise enough to see him for what he really was. I sent you to Sir Erik's in search of a suitor in hopes that you would put such foolishness behind you, but apparently you're more immature than I had thought you to be. After that, I realized there was nothing left to do but deal with him permanently."

Realization hit Rogue; the room began to spin and she gripped her head.

"It…it was you," she said quietly. "The Assassins…you had them capture me to draw Gambit out…"

"Hmm." A bright-colored smile. "You _are_ quick, aren't you?" She frowned. "But unfortunately, those Assassins are quite the primitive bunch. I can tell they hadn't handled you as carefully as I specified. Now I'm doubtful as to whether they even got the job done." Her arms crossed her chest in annoyance.

"Then, Nicolas…" Rogue was still finding it difficult to speak in complete sentences.

Waving a hand, the Lady scoffed. "Don't associate that doddering old fool with me. I imagine it was either his own idiocy or some resentment that led him to reveal to me what he did."

Bile raged at the back of Rogue's throat. _Everything…it was all her…she tried to kill Gambit…she could've killed me…_

"But while he was here, he could have at least told you what that thief obviously neglected to. I don't suppose he told you about his past?" Rogue winced involuntarily, and the Lady mistook that as a sign that he had not. "Then you don't know about the Assassins? How he's responsible for the disappearance of Julien Boudreaux, the master's only grandson?"

"Don't you—"

"Or how about the fact that this Bella Donna was actually once his fiancée? That he abandoned her when he was forced to flee town for his crimes?"

"Don't speak of him like you know him," Rogue murmured hoarsely.

"And I suppose he was kind enough to tell you of his history with a number of women, wenches and nobles alike?"

"Ah know of his past. Those days are behind him."

"Did he tell you what happened during the three years that he was banished from this country? Did he tell you how he helped to slaughter scores of the Second Class for pay—"

"_Shut up!"_ Doubled over, Rogue tried to ignore the memories that had resurfaced, memories that were not her own, but Gambit's, taken from him the day that he had consented to touching her. That was when she had found out about the man who had paid him to lead a team of murderers into a hidden camp of refugee slaves. She had felt the same horror and sickness as Gambit at the realization that he had been tricked into initiating a mass homicide.

She also knew that the memory of that night haunted him to this day, that it had poisoned his dreams and fed his nightmares for months. How he managed to keep such a cheerful countenance despite his pain was beyond her.

"—Being honest," Lady Darkholme was saying, "I'll go ahead and tell you that I expect nothing less than for you to follow me back to that priest and announce that you're going to accept Colossus' proposal."

Her head snapped up. "No," she said immediately, more out of instinct than will.

"Be careful how you address me. I've already a mind to teach you some manners—" Reaching for Rogue's arm again, the Lady glowered when she drew back.

"Ah said, no—" A slap met the side of Rogue's face faster than she could bat an eye. Caught off guard, she stumbled to the side before catching herself, fury rising. She met the Lady's fiery gaze, almost wishing that the hand had not been protected by its silk glove, and froze.

The inner parts of the Lady's dark eyes appeared to have elongated, stretching out like a cat's. The area around them had taken on a yellow tint, and as Rogue watched, the burgundy dress that the woman wore seemed to ripple over her form.

But then she blinked and Lady Darkholme was herself once more, although she seemed to have lost some of the self-assured air that had clouded her moments before.

"Get to your chamber, now," she ordered in a flustered calm. When Rogue did not act right away, she all but screamed, "_Now!_"

:xXxXx:

Only a raindrop of light broke the blanket of darkness.

Rogue had watched as it sank lower and lower towards the top of the candlestick, the orange and yellow aura that it gave off steadily shrinking out of sight in the nearby mirror. The flame continued to waver despite the absence of a breeze, and the way it darted randomly to and fro, as though twisted by invisible hands, reflected the solemn river of thoughts that flowed through her mind.

She was utterly alone, seated on her bed with her back to the starry sky that shone through the balcony curtains. The room was, for the time being, to be hers only, as the Lady had relocated Scarlet shortly after the ceremony ended. That action could not have been more of a blessing, for Rogue had wanted nothing but to be by herself for as long as the day permitted to sit and think uninterrupted.

Beside her, the ceremonial dress lay crumpled and forgotten like a wounded animal, its hem the color of late sunset due to the quivering candlelight.

When footsteps sounded on her balcony, her hope was overcome by grief at the news she had to deliver and she at first did not move; but then her heart was threatening to burst and she was on her feet, moving swiftly but silently towards the figure that stood just beyond the curtains.

She could already see the shine of the half-moon on his red eyes, and despite herself she nearly smiled. The circumstances held her mouth in check, and where she should have been saying how relieved she was to see him alive, she was instead urging in a low voice,

"Gambit, you must leave—if they find you here, they'll kill you—please—"

"Hey, hey," he said calmly—_too_ calmly, she thought with irritation—"it's all right. After las' night, the Assassins'll think twice b'fore steppin' foot around here—" He stopped as he caught her expression. Even through the veil-thin drapes, Rogue guessed that her anxiety was more apparent than she anticipated.

"It's not them," she whispered, shaking her head. "Gambit, Lady Darkholme knows—she knows everythin'—there are guards outside mah door right now ready to kill you if you're seen here, an' they're not the only ones—you have to leave, now—"

It took Gambit several attempts to calm her down into speaking more legibly, and once this was done, he asked, "_What_ does she know?"

"Everythin'—about you an' me—the day in town, the ball, _everythin'_." Rogue's voice was shaking. "Gambit, she hired the Assassins—"

"What?"

"They had orders to kill you, but they didn't do what she said—ah don't know—but she's expectin' you now—" He started to step through into the room, but she stopped him. "Don't. If she catches you—"

"Rogue." There was more power and influence in that one word than anything else he could have said, and she held her tongue. "What you're sayin', it's—it's hard t'believe—"

"Don't you think ah know that?" she snapped, still quietly. "Ah never would've believed it if she hadn't told me herself."

Gambit blinked. "She told you?"

Rogue's head began to clear as she recalled the day's events, enough to feel an indication of discomfiture, and she hesitated. "…Ah was to enter an engagement today. You know Piotr—Colossus—of Sir Erik's clan?" No amount of courage could convince her to face Gambit directly, but in the corner of her eye she saw him nod. "The Lady had arranged for us to be married, but ah refused his proposal. She was infuriated." She said nothing more, allowing him to decipher the rest as he would. "An' now ah'm afraid she might take her anger out on you. So please, for both our sakes, _go._ Never set foot in these grounds again if you can help it."

This last order seemed to startle him. Gambit retained his silence for a moment longer before saying in reluctant submission, "If you fear for my safety in sayin' so, then I'll heed your wish, Rogue." He gave an uncertain smile. "After all, we've still got Ithirath." To this she shook her head again.

"Ah've already heard that orders have been given to restrain me here. When ah do go into town, doubtlessly ah'll either be appointed personal guards or followed." All too suddenly, her voice broke, and the shield she had erected so many years ago began to shudder under the pressure of its unseen enemy, the force she had striven so long to ignore. "Ah won't risk your life like that. Ah refuse."

"Rogue—"

"Ah'm not gonna get you killed, you stupid bandit!" The shield was cracking. "Why else do you think ah never spoke a word of you to anyone? Even before now, ah never wanted to see you die!" Rogue wanted to strike him for his idiocy, as if he were to blame for what she felt. "Ever since that day when you just _had_ to step into mah life, ah've felt nothin' but this responsibility to protect you as much as ah could, even if that meant turnin' against mah clan, and ah'm not about to let all the lies 'n secrets go to waste—"

"Rogue, would you stop thinkin' about yourself for one damn minute?" Low though it was, Gambit's voice was fiercer than she had ever heard it. She did not notice that he had gripped her arms through the curtains, which were frail enough to let her feel the heat of his skin against hers, only just separated. "You think this is all one-sided? You think I haven' looked at you wit' more than jus' friendship in mind?"

His bluntness made her face burn and she looked away, but he kept going. "Did you seriously allow yourself t'fancy that I snuck around here t'meet you jus' for the thrill of it? That I'd confront the Assassins without a second thought for jus' anyone?"

"No," she managed, with less force than she had hoped.

"Then why d'you assume that I'll stop seein' you jus' b'cause it means takin' a li'l more risk? Why d'you think you're the only one who would suffer?"

_Because ah was afraid to believe it was possible._

The truth rang clear in Rogue's mind, but she could not bring herself to speak it. She met his eyes slowly, and something told her that Gambit read that silent thought in her gaze. As they both fell still, she felt what remained of her shield break and collapse into rubble.

Although he was the one to make the first move, she knew she was equally guilty in seeing it and making no attempt to stop him. All she cared about right then was that they were together, possibly for the last time. That was partly why she welcomed the kiss he leaned forward to place on her lips.

The flimsy curtain shaped easily between the two of them, permitting them to slip into a natural embrace as they parted and kissed again, both protected and hindered by the purple fabric. His arms were around her, holding her close, and she gripped his sleeves in response as much as she did for support.

Strange and tangled though it was, this contact-but-not-contact interaction possessed something in it that her kiss with Piotr—now nothing more than a distant memory—had never held and could never hope to: enthusiasm. Patience. Hope. Possibility. All these had built up since that day in the market when they first met and combined into a single feeling.

For that instant, there were no classes, no ranks, no names, no clans. There was only the two of them, and they were together. That was enough.

Even when the kiss ended, he kept holding her, and they stayed there until the candlelight had burned down into nothing.

:xXxXx:

Author's note: Short? Yes. This chapter could have been twice as long--16 pages instead of 8--but I figured I'd just go ahead and give y'all this much and leave you on a cliffhanger rather than make you wait another few weeks.


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